


Heartless Wizard Holmes

by EstravenAi



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstravenAi/pseuds/EstravenAi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a land of seven league boots and sorcerers, being the eldest of two can be quite a curse. But just when John Watson has settled into a life of mediocrity, an encounter with a witch sends him on an adventure that will change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John Makes Notes and Meets a Stranger

A flash of light illuminated the desolate land, revealing for just an instant the soldiers surrounded by grotesque creatures. Heat radiated from seemingly all around and the sounds of screams and shots drown out everything, including thought. John Watson watched as a soldier fell to his knees, blood pooling and soaking his legs. He could hear himself screaming, but could not make out he was saying. He ran forward, moving through the minefield of explosions and shots to reach the young man. He was only a child, terrified and vulnerable. John reached him just as his eyes closed. He found the source of the blood in the young man's leg and applied pressure. His hands were covered in blood and he felt sick. Then he heard a shot, as if in the distance, and felt himself fall forward.

John woke in a sweat, breathing hard and shaking. He ran his hands over his face and tried to control his breathing, hoping he had not called out in his sleep. He took several deep breaths, moving his hands down to grasp the sheets hard, trying to steady himself.

Once he had regained some control, he glanced out of the window of his small room, trying to control his breathing as flashes of the nightmare played in his head. It was still dark outside, but he knew he would never get back to sleep. Sighing, he pushed himself up and moved to his small desk, where his notes on healing remedies were spread across the small surface. Sitting down at the small space, he resigned himself to the tedium of working on the remedies until his father's clinic opened.

Being born the eldest of three in a land where seven league boots and sorcerers exist is quite a misfortune. In the land of Ingary, the eldest of three is certain to live a life of mediocrity and failure while the youngest finds their fortune. And yet, being the eldest of two is worse. In a family with two children, neither child is destined for greatness.

John and his sister Harry certainly did not challenge this fact. They came from a long line of mediocrity and failure and were both on their way to continuing the family tradition. Although their mother died when they were both quite young, their father never remarried, leaving them without even a stepmother.

As one of Market Chipping's only doctors, John's father made a fairly decent living. However, after their mother's death, their father turned to alcohol, becoming worse as the years went by, and eventually becoming unpredictable and violent. As the eldest, John was left to protect and tend to his sister and help keep the clinic running when his father was indisposed. As the years went on, John became more and more responsible for the clinic as his father's alcoholism became worse. He resigned himself to a life of tending the clinic and trying to care for his sister, who became more rebellious and difficult as time went by.

Regardless of his father's shortcomings, John admired and loved him. He was incredibly adept at creating remedies and discovering his patient's ills. He taught John a great deal and John used this knowledge to help his sister and father when they were ill. Although he wished for something greater, John found that he enjoyed healing. It gave him a sense of purpose.

Everything changed on the tenth anniversary of his mother's death. His father was more drunk than John had ever seen him and, worse, his sister was drunk as well. They fought and his father became violent. John tried to intervene, but only made it worse. In the end, Harry had gone and John had no idea where to find her.

That day had been the last straw. Angry with his fate and determined to change his future, John had enlisted in the war as a healer. He was determined to make something of himself and to show his father that their family was not destined to failure.

He worked his way quickly up the ranks and found great success. He was beginning to truly believe he might just escape his fate when everything came crashing down. Injured and unable to continue his duties, John was sent back to Ingary to find his father had become ill (the healer said it was a liver disease). John spent the next few months tending to his father, until he finally passed away, leaving John alone with the clinic to accept, once and for all, his fate.

John glanced out the window again, surprised to find the sun had risen. He looked down at his notes and realized he hadn't actually done any work. Frowning, he pushed the notes into a pile and made his way into the clinic to face another day of the same thing he had done the day before.

As his patients came and went, almost all with simple maladies that required no thought on his part, he enjoyed the benefit of his simple life -- the stories. Each patient, most of whom had been his father's patients before him, told him stories of life outside of the clinic. Often, these were simple stories of everyday life -- a son going off to school, a daughter finding her fortune, an aunt becoming a witch -- but lately the stories had become more interesting.

His patients had begun discussing the Witch of the Wastes, who had apparently reappeared after fifty years of dormancy. According to the rumors, the Witch had threatened the king's daughter, who then disappeared. The king sent his royal wizard, Wizard Sulliman, after her, but not only did he fail to retrieve her, he had apparently gotten himself killed.

Then, when a mysterious black building appeared just outside of the village, his patients were certain the Witch had left the Wastes to come and torment the towns again. The black mass, with smoke coming from its four tall turrets, would appear and disappear in different locations all around the outskirts of the village--sometimes among the hills, sometimes looming above the cliffs, and sometimes settling in the moors. Some said that, if one watched carefully, they could even see the strange castle moving on its own.

After several weeks with no attacks, however, the villagers finally realized it was not the Witch. But reality, it turned out, was not much better than rumor. The moving castle belonged to the Wizard Holmes, a thoroughly heartless man known for stealing and eating the hearts of others.

John found such stories exciting, though not particularly frightening. He knew he would never be in danger of an encounter with either the Heartless Wizard, as he had come to be known, or the Witch of the Wastes. It was not his fate to have such encounters. Nothing interesting ever happened to him.

As the days wore on, John began entertaining himself by making extra notes in his healer's journal. When making remedies for certain patients, he began adding notes, such as "Mr. Anderson's remedy to dry up the sinuses. However, as it is to be given to Mr. Anderson, it might as well provide a bit of wit. The man's a blubbering idiot" or "Mrs. Turner's herbal soothers, which must also work to keep her from gossiping or I'll never get any work done. Perhaps she needs some nice lodgers to keep her busy, though I certainly feel sorry for their ears!"

As spring arrived, John found himself busier and busier. He had, out of boredom and trouble sleeping, worked on creating new remedies. To his surprise, these had become quite popular. John spent all day seeing patients and most of the night creating his remedies. He should have been pleased with his success, but he more often found himself struggling to pull himself out of bed. Although his war injury had long healed, he felt it must still be draining his strength.

Thus, when he found himself running low on several of his most popular herbs one day in Spring, he determined to go to the shop on May Day, a day when closing the clinic would hardly hurt business and when he could see the town's festivities. He hoped being surrounded by happy people in a celebratory mood might restore some of his energy. 

* * *

The morning of May Day, John found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed and ready to go, but somehow unable to move. He cursed his injury, rubbing his forehead and trying to will himself up. By the time he had managed to leave the front door, the sun was already high in the sky and the festivities were in full swing.

To get to the shop, he needed to navigate through the town's main thoroughfare. As he turned onto the large street, he found it crowded to brimming with people and booths. John sighed, thinking he really should have left earlier if he wanted to actually make it to the shop before it closed.

Determined, John began pushing his way through the crowd. Within a few steps, he was surrounded by jostling bodies. From every directly, people were calling out to him and to others. As John walked forward, he began to feel dizzy. His chest tightened and his breathing quickened. He began to feel panicked, but could not figure out why.

He looked around at the swarming bodies and, to his shock, saw soldiers in amongst the townsfolk. They were in full uniform, just as he remember, and were running and ducking. He heard their shouts and the sound of explosions.

The war! It had come to Market Chipping! He needed to get the citizens out of danger. He needed to save the soldiers! He needed to...

Suddenly there was a face directly in front of his. He started, but the man standing so close did not attack. Instead, he stared at John, directly into his eyes with the most intense expression John had ever seen.

"Did you know that there is a bird in the north that can only fly between two and four in the morning?" the man said.

"Wh... What?" John stammered, trying to glance around him to the soldiers.

"A bird," the man said, maneuvering slightly so that he blocked John's gaze. "It was important for a case once, though I never figured out why the bird is incapable of flight at any other hour."

"A... a case?" John's eyebrows furrowed as he returned the man's intense stare.

"Yes, yes. Do keep up," the man rolled his eyes, but somehow managed to maintain John's gaze. "There was a murder. Quite a nasty one, in fact. I narrowed it down to one suspect, but he had an alibi for the time of the murder. He was spotted by several people at the local inn from midnight until well after five in the morning the day the murder was committed, at around 3:30 am . Now of course you know the rest."

"What?" John shook his head slightly. "No, how would I..."

John had glanced to the side and found he was no longer surrounded by a teaming crowd in the middle of the main street, but was alone with the mysterious man in a small alley he had never noticed in all his years in the village.

"Wait, where are we?" John looked back at the man, who shrugged.

  
"You looked like you wanted out of there," he said simply.

John hadn't even known he had moved. He had been so captivated by the story and the stranger who told it. His pale, angular face surrounded by those dark curls. And his eyes--so intense and such a captivating color.

John squinted at the stranger, who was now glancing around them furtively, as though trying to read his secrets on his person.

"But how did..." he began, but the stranger cut him off before he could finish his thought.

"No time," he said quickly and softly. "I'm being pursued and I'm afraid you've gotten caught up in it now. Where were you going?"

"Huh? Pursued? Wait..." but the stranger had taken his hand and set off, all but dragging him behind.

"Where?" he asked again over his shoulder as they approached a turn in the alley.

"The... the herb shop," John said, glancing over his shoulder and spotting a long, strangely dense shadow moving quickly along the alley.

Still staring at the shadow behind them, John startled and stumbled as his hand was jerked forward. He turned his attention to the stranger, who was now running down another alley, tugging him behind.

They reached a fire escape and the stranger tugged him up, then through an open window and toward another staircase. Before John had worked out where they were going, they were on the roof. At some point, the stranger had let go of his hand and was now running toward the edge of the roof. Without thinking, John followed and was just behind as the stranger leaped, clearing the gap between the buildings and landing on the next roof.

John hesitated when he reached the edge of the building, glancing up at the stranger.

"Come on!" the stranger beckoned him, looking impatient.

Taking a deep breath, John backed up and ran, not allowing himself to think as he leaped off the roof toward the next building. He landed with a soft thud and a thrill of adrenaline. Glancing behind him at the gap in the buildings, he saw a shadow moving along the other roof.

"Hurry," the stranger had already moved to the next building.

John rushed to catch up, all hesitation forgotten as the adrenaline pumped in his veins. They darted together along rooftops for what seemed like an eternity before they reached a gap far to large to cross. John looked around, trying to find another way, but before he could move a step, the stranger had grasped his hand again.

"Ready?" the strange man asked.

John stared at him. "Ready for wha..."

Before he could finish the thought, the stranger had leaped off the roof, pulling John's hand along with him. Without thinking, John followed his hand and leapt. His heart rocketed into his throat as he realized what he had just done and he closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable fall. But it never came.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the stranger grinning at him, floating beside him in mid air. John's eyes widened as he looked down and saw the ground so far below his own floating feet. He glanced back up at the grinning face, struck dumb.

"Now run!" the stranger said and took off, gliding through mid air with John's hand clasped firmly in his own.

John had never felt more exhilarated in his life. He watched his feet move through the air as though on an invisible road. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced. A combination of swimming and gliding. He looked over at the stranger and found him still grinning, glancing behind his shoulder periodically. John looked back as well and found the shadows had stopped at the edge of the building and were now whirring and swirling in a chaotic cluster.

He was still starring at the whirling mass when his feet touched lightly down on a steady surface. He looked around and found himself on the balcony of the herb shop. He looked at the stranger, who was looking back at him. Then they both burst out laughing, leaning heavily against the shop wall.

"That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done!" John breathed.

"You invaded Zanzib," the stranger replied.

John giggled... actually giggled. He couldn't even remember the last time he had done that.

"That wasn't just me," he huffed out.

They laughed together a moment more, then the stranger's words finally sunk in.

"Wait, how did you know about Zanzib?" he asked, pushing himself off the wall to face the strange man.

The man grinned and looked back out to the street, where the shadows had collected again.

"Got to go," he said quickly before leaping over the rail and off the balcony.

"Wait!" John shouted, but it was too late. The mysterious man was gone and he was left to watch the shadows float slowly after him. 


	2. In Which John is Compelled to Hunt a Witch

When John arrived back at the clinic, he found a note waiting for him on his desk. He stared at it for a long moment, wondering how anybody had gotten into the locked clinic to leave it and feeling a vague apprehension. Finally, he picked it up and found, lying beneath it, a familiar pocket watch. He hesitated, reaching out to touch the small piece. Then he began reading.

"Dearest John,

I am sorry that I left the way I did. I know it was wrong of me, but I couldn't stand to be there with father any longer. Please don't think I left because I didn't care about you. You were everything, but I needed to strike out on my own and try to make my fortune. I didn't want you to have to take care of me my entire life.

I've begun an apprenticeship with a lovely women out in the countryside. She is a witch! She's teaching me all she knows and getting me in contact with important people. You don't need to worry about me anymore.

John, you don't belong in that cramped old clinic doing dad's work. You could do so much more if you just let go of your thing about being the eldest. Please do try something for yourself for once.

I'm sorry I can't stay. I wanted to give you my watch. Something to remember me by. I do miss you so. I'll come back again as soon as I can to visit you.

Your sister,

Harry Watson"

John stared at the letter for a long moment before he carefully folded it and put it in his pocket. He then picked up the pocket watch and turned it slowly in his hand, feeling a weight to it that had nothing to do with its physical size.

Sighing, he attached the chain to his trousers and slipped the watch into his pocket with the letter. Turning abruptly from the desk, he went straight to bed.

 

* * *

The next morning, John found he had little tolerance for the annoyances of his usual day to day. Or rather, he appeared to have lost his filter. When Anderson came into the clinic complaining that he did not pass his detective's exam, John responded, "well, that's because your using it. It would take a magic spell to give you brains. Next time try asking somebody with half a brain to take it for you." Anderson had left in a huff and John had tried to feel bad about his words, but failed.

He spent the rest of the day trying to control himself and decided, instead, to simply close up early and work on his remedies. Just as he was closing the clinic door, however, a woman dressed in an extravagant silk gown pushed her way in. 

John stared at her with equal parts amazement and annoyance. She had dark hair carefully pinned up behind an sharp face. Her light eyes seemed to radiate authority and mischief. John found himself more annoyed that he had been all day.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" he asked, trying to be polite as she pushed her way past him and into the room. 

Behind her, a meek looking young woman with light brown hair shuffled into the room and cowered by the door. John glanced at her, then looked back to the towering woman.

"I've come for a remedy, of course," she said dismissively.

John raised an eyebrow.

"A remedy for what, exactly?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"Oh," she said, waving a hand, "just something to help me attract a certain someone."

John stared at her for a long moment before he realized his mouth had fallen open. She was wandering around his front room, running her hands along his books.

"I don't do that sort of thing," he said finally. 

She shot a sharp look at him over her shoulder.

"Oh really?" she said and John was, inexplicably, reminded of a cat. "Well, what exactly are you good for then?"

John scoffed. 

"I'm a healer and you're in the wrong place," he said sourly.

Behind the woman, the meek servant was shaking her head, looking concerned. John ignored her.

"Perhaps you would do better finding what you're looking for at an inn?" John spat. "I'm closed anyway."

"Standing up to the Witch of the Wastes?" the woman had turned to him and was now smiling in a way that did nothing to put John at ease. "That's certainly brave."

John's eyes widened as and he took an involuntary step back.

"Y... you're..." he stammered.

Her smile widened and she stepped forward, leaning in so that their faces were only inches apart.

"This is for trying to take what is mine," she whispered before leaning forward and placing kiss on his forehead.

He jerked back, his hand automatically going to the spot she had touched.

"What did you..." but before he could finish, a sharp pain in his shoulder and leg took all thought of the witch from his mind.

He collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain and clutching his right leg with his one good arm. From what seemed like a great distance, he felt an hand on his back and heard a voice in his ear.

"And the best part is that you can't tell anybody about the curse."

John opened his eyes and saw two blurry figures leaving the clinic. He thought he saw the shorter figure hesitate, but before he could be certain, his vision seemed to narrow to a point and then all he saw was black.

* * *

 

The next morning John found himself curled up on the floor, aching all over and stiff. The light streaming through the front window hit his head like a hammer and closing his eyes again did little to help the pounding.

His shoulder felt the way it had when he had first returned home from the war, the wound still healing and the limb largely useless. He thought of the months of exercises he had be forced to do, equally tedious and painful, just to work the shoulder back into a usable shape, all while his father lay dying in his bed and John had been useless to help. He tried to move the shoulder to lift himself off the ground and found it too painful to move more than few centimeters. He felt like putting his other fist through a table. The only thing that prevented this action was the realization that he needed at least one good arm.

As frustrating as his shoulder was, however, it was nothing when compared to his leg. He could hardly locate the origin of the pain, which radiated up and down the limb like an electrical surge every time he tried to move it. The joints, however, seemed to be particularly painful areas. He tugged at his trousers until he could see his ankle and found it inflamed and swollen. He winced and let the trouser leg go again.

Glancing back at the source light, which was still making his head ache, he found that the sun had only just risen. The light was still diffuse and muted (he dreaded full brightness, certain his head would split open), which meant he still had at least an hour or so before his first patients would arrive.

Trying to suppress a groan, John used his good arm to push himself into a sitting position. He glanced around the clinic, taking in the small rooms in which he had spent most of his life. He closed his eyes, wondering how in the world he would manage to work without the use of his arm or leg.

Then, as suddenly as if the idea had been divine inspiration, he knew that he didn't have to open the clinic. He wasn't the only healer in town and his patients would survive without him for a while. He had something more important to do. He had to go hunt a witch.

His eyes snapped open and, with a strength and renewed vigor that came from the depths of his anger, he pushed himself up into a standing position, leaning heavily on the table and putting his weight on his left leg. Slowly, but with determination, he made his way into his room, packed a small, light bag, and then made his way back to the door. Looking back one last time, John bid a silent farewell to the cozy cottage that had been his family's home for generations. Then he turned the sign to closed and stepped stiffly out onto the road.

* * *

His progress had been quite slow, punctuated by the need to rest several times before he had even reached the moors just outside of the village. He cursed himself for selling his last cane and not restocking, but he was too far from the village to go back and get a new one now.

"I'll just need to find a sturdy stick along the way," he murmured to himself, trying to break the oppressive silence.

No sooner had he spoken than he turned and saw a stick poking out of a nearby bush. Marveling at his good fortune (and eerily good timing), he made his way to the stick and examined it. It appeared to be the perfect width for a cane and looked quite sturdy.

Grinning slightly, he grasped the stick with his good arm and began to pull. He was not surprised when the stick held tight in the bush. He was, of course, only allotted so much good fortune, after all. Still, he was determined and still angry, so he shifted his weight and pushed down with all his strength.

The stick came loose with a jerk, sending John sprawling backward onto the ground. Groaning, John pushed himself up and looked at the bush, expecting to find the stick. What he found, instead, was a rather ragged looking scarecrow, the end of which had been sticking out of the bush.

John rolled his eyes, though he had to admit he felt some fellow feeling for the damaged thing.

"I should have known," he said to the scarecrow. "Well, if I were meant for good fortune, I suppose you would come to life and help me find the Witch of the Wastes. Or at least help me find a proper cane. Ah well. At least you aren't stuck now."

With one last glance at the scarecrow, John began to make his way forward again. After what seemed an eternity of slow and tedious progress, John glance behind him to find Market Chipping not much farther than it had seemed when he found the scarecrow.

"I've hardly made any progress at all!" he groaned. "At this rate it will take a wizard for me to catch the Witch."

He sighed and turned to find himself face to face with a large, black dog, growling and bearing its teeth. John stumbled back, alarmed, but the dog stayed where it was, alternately growling and whimpering. It looked as though it were pulling against something and John, looking closely, found a rope wound around it's neck and tangled among its legs.

"Oh, your stuck," John said, glancing behind the creature to find end of the rope tangled in another bush.

"Alright, well I'll get you out, but you've got to calm down," he told the dog, which was eyeing him warily, teeth still bared. "If you bite me, I'll leave you here."

The dog whimpered, its teeth still bared, but as John moved forward, it did not move to bite. Gingerly, John ducked behind the dog to find the source of its tangle. In the bush, he found the end of the rope tied around some kind of bar. Sighing, he leveraged his weight against his good leg and began tugging. After a long moment of effort, he managed to pull the rod free and, after a bit of work, untangle the dog from the rope.

The dog stared at him for a moment before darting off. 

"You're welcome," John called after it.

He turned to go again and noticed the rod on which the dog was tangled. He gasped in astonishment. It was a cane!

He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was the perfect size for him and quite nice, with a carved wooden handle with a dog's head at the tip and a sturdy base. 

"Thank you!" John called over his shoulder in the direction of the dog.

* * *

Night was beginning to fall and the wind was becoming bitter. John gripped his new cane tighter and forced himself to continue forward. At the rate he was going, he would never reach shelter before nightfall. And with the curse, he would be vulnerable to any creature or evil that might happen upon him in the dark. He needed to find shelter and soon.

"Well," he murmured, addressing the head carved into his cane, "I should, by all rights, be due a third encounter soon. In fact, I demand it."

The cane stared back woodenly at him.

"Right," he said, making his way slowly forward again and trying to calculate the distance to the next village.

"John! John Watson!" a voice he vaguely recognized broke his concentration and his head snapped up.

In the distance, John saw a figure, rather rounded and short, beckoning to him. He recognized the voice as if it were a distant memory.

The figure approached and John gripped his cane tighter, ready to fight if he needed. But when the figure came into full view, he relaxed his grip and tried to smile -- rather unsuccessfully.

"Mike. Mike Stamford," Mike said, pointing to himself as he approached. "We were in school together."

"Yes, I remember," John said, suddenly very aware of the cane in his hand.

"I heard you were off getting shot at," Mike said, smiling widely. "What happened?"

"I got shot," John said, gripping his cane tighter.

Mike looked down at his feet, clearing his throat. An awkward silence spread between them.

"It's quite late to be out on the moors mate," Mike said finally. "Any particular reason you're running around out here?"

"I'm hunting a witch," John said flatly.

Mike raised an eyebrow, "oh? Er, any way I can help?"

"Not unless you know how to find the Witch of the Wastes," John said, shifting his weight in an effort to relieve some of the strain on his right leg.

Mike laughed softly, "afraid not. I don't know of anybody who has a chance of catching her except that Wizard Holmes fellow."

John stared, "Wizard Homes? You mean the one in the moving castle?"

"Yep, that's the one," Mike said cheerfully. "Though you might be in just as much danger with him as you would be with the witch."

"Hmmm," John glanced out into the distance. "Any idea where to find him?"

Mike's eyebrows climbed near his hairline. "Er, not precisely. That castle sometimes comes round here though. You aren't thinking of actually trying to find him, are you?"

"Well, I'd best get going," John said, taking Mike's hand and shaking it brusquely. "Thanks for your help."

"Er... yeah. Good luck mate," Mike said, still staring at John as though he had lost his mind. "Take care of yourself, yeah."

"Right, yeah," John murmured as he stared off into the distance at a slowly moving black smudge on the horizon.


	3. In Which John Enters into a Castle and a Bargain

John moved as quickly as he could toward the slowly moving castle, trying to ignore the aches and pains the movement caused. Nonetheless, by the time he reached the castle, night had long fallen and the cold was penetrating into his bones.

When the castle was close enough for John to see it clearly, he stopped and stared. The building looked as though it were held together by magic and will power alone. It was incredibly large and vaguely oval shaped, with large turrets pouring smoke out of the top. It appeared to be constructed of an amalgam of bits and pieces of other structures -- what looked like a cottage room here, a sleek metal room there, a large panel between. Beneath the structure were large, bird-like legs that appeared to be made of some sort of metal and were slowly moving along the ground.

Taking a deep breath, John moved forward before he could lose his nerve. When he arrived at the edge of the castle, however, John had no idea how to get in. There were several doors, but he could reach none of them. 

John decided to move closer, thinking he might be able to see something hidden from up close. But before he had taken two steps toward the castle, he hit an invisible barrier that prevented him from moving any closer.

"What the..." John pushed against the barrier, but to no avail.

Frustrated, he moved around to the other side of the castle, only to find the same problem. Then, trying to get to the back, he hit a wall that prevented him from moving around the castle entirely.

"Stop this!" he gripped, glaring at the castle. "I want in. Let me in."

The castle continued to move sluggishly forward.

Grunting, John made his way back around the front of the castle to the other side. Still, he found his way blocked. Getting more and more angry, John tried to reach the back of the castle from the other direction and, this time, found his way clear. He was so surprised that he stumbled, expecting to push against another barrier.

Now facing the back of the monstrous castle, John could see a small door, extending out from the building close to the ground. It was the only door he had any chance of reaching, so he moved toward it as quickly as he could. Reaching it, he found it locked, which did not surprise him in the least.

"Open up!" he said, using his cane to bang on the door while trying to balance on the small platform as the castle continued to sluggishly move forward.

He tried the handle again, more out of frustration than hope, but the knob turned easily and the door swung open, nearly knocking him off the platform.

Raising an eyebrow, John peaked around the door into the astonishing castle. He could feel the warmth radiating from the interior and see a cozy fire just inside the door. He didn't need any other persuasion.

He entered the castle and made his way directly to the fire, collapsing into a red armchair nearby and taking several deep breaths. He hadn't realized how exhausted he had become. He spend several long minutes with his eyes closed, relishing the soft chair and the warmth of the fire.

Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced around. The room in which he found himself was apparently a den or a living area, though it was difficult to tell. Every surface was covered with boxes and papers and strange, unidentifiable items. In the corner, beside the fire, sat what looked disturbingly like a human skull. 

_Well_ , John though sardonically, _I have certainly found a wizard's house alright._

He turned his attention back to the fire, feeling the exhaustion of the day deep in his aching bones. As he stared, he thought he must be more tired that he knew. In the fire, he was almost certain he could see a face. The fire was a odd blue color, as though there were salt in the logs burning at the bottom. The top of the fire, however, was green and curled, almost like hair. In the center sat two reddish orange spots that John could almost make out as eyes. There were even small purple glints in the center for pupils. And, perhaps most disturbingly, there was a long dark slash near the bottom with purple flames that could have been quite nasty teeth.

"It would be my luck to have come to the house, not only of a wizard, but a possessed fire," he murmured to the fire.

"I'm not possessed deary," the fire replied, making John jump in his chair. "I'm a fire demon."

John stared. The demon's voice, unlike what he would have expected from such a creature, was high and lilting, almost like an old woman.

"F... Fire demon?" John asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Yes deary," the demon responded and John could have sworn it was smiling. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson."

John shot a look at the skull, eyebrow raised.

"Right," he said, looking back to the fir... to Mrs. Hudson. "Okay then."

"Are you Sherlock's date then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

John stared. "Sherlock?"

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I suppose you must know him as Wizard Holmes. Dreadful name, if you ask me. Well then, are you the wizard's date?"

John blinked. "What? No! Of course not!"

"Oh, don't worry dear," she said with a laugh. "I've seen all kinds in my day."

"Er.. right," John mumbled. "Well, I'm not his date."

"Hmmm," the fire hummed. 

John rubbed his leg, trying to work out some of the stiffness and pain that had accumulated during the day.

"Oh my poor dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed at him, "that's a nasty curse. Curses are hard."

"How did you know?" John asked, his head shooting up.

"Oh, you've been around as long as I have, you can recognize those sorts of things," Mrs. Hudson said. "Let me guess. You can't talk about the curse. Is that right?"

"Er, yeah," John replied.

"I understand deary," the fire said, a touch of sadness to her voice. "I might be able to help you with that."

John's eyes widened. "You can? Great!"

"Well, it will take a bit of time," Mrs. Hudson said. "And, of course, it won't be free."

"I... I don't have much money," John said slowly, "but you can have..."

"Oh no, deary," Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I don't want money. No. I want you to help break my contract with Sherlock."

"Your contract?" John asked, highly confused.

"Yes dear," the fire replied. "I'm bound to this house because of that contract. I want you to break it."

"But... Why would you think I could do that?"

"Oh, I have a feeling," Mrs. Hudson seemed to dance in the grate. "I've learned to trust my instincts."

"Okay then," John said. "It's a deal."

"Wonderful!" 

"So, how do I break your contract?" John asked.

"Oh, I can't say," Mrs. Hudson seemed to shrink again. "I'm not allowed to discuss the details of the contract."

"But, then how am I supposed to break it?" John was getting annoyed. Would anything in his life be simple again?

"Well, you'll have to figure that out," Mrs. Hudson said. "It will take me some time to break your curse, so you can use that time to figure out my contract."

"So what? Am I just supposed to stay here then?" John asked, glancing around at the mess of a room.

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson replied. "There's an extra bedroom, if you'll be needing it."

"Yes of course I'll..." John stopped himself. "Who says Wizard Holmes will even allow me to stay?"

"Oh, he will," the streak of red near the fire's base expanded in a large rather toothy grin.

John sighed, glancing around again.

"It's quite a mess in here, isn't it?" John murmured.

"I'm not the housekeeper," the fire responded.

John raised an eyebrow, "I see that."

John sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the skull in the corner.

"I'm not sure I should stay," he said finally, "Wizard Holmes eats hearts, after all."

The fire seemed to shake with laughter.

"Oh no!" it said after a moment, "not literally anyway."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson paused, clearly deciding how best to explain. "Sherlock can be quite charming when he needs to be. He has a bad habit of using that charm to get what he wants. I suppose a few aunts in the local villages have taken to describing that habit in rather flowery language."

"Oh," John said, feeling foolish.

He sank back further in the chair, still relishing the warmth of the fire, though it being alive was a bit disorienting. He felt himself drifting and didn't resist. He would have a lot of work to do, very soon.


	4. In Which John Discovers Strange Things and Sherlock Returns Home

John woke again when a stream of light settled annoyingly on his eyelids. When he forced them open, he found the light was coming in though a crack in the curtains of a window he had entirely overlooked the night before. John stretched, but then groaned as pain shot through his leg and down his arm.

He found that, as angry as he had been with the witch before, he was much more angry now. He must have been in shock the previous day. He was fuming. What right did she have, going around disabling people. And why him? He decided more firmly that he would track her down and find out. And if that meant staying with a heart eating (metaphorical or otherwise) Wizard, then that's what he would do. 

Grimacing, he looked around the room. The fire was burning contentedly in the grate, its face turned toward the door. John glanced over his shoulder at the room. In the daylight, the piles of papers and boxes and items looked dusty and chaotic, with the exception of a small desk on which sets of strange items sat.

John pushed himself slowly up, leaning heavily on his cane. He moved to the window, wanting to determine as close to possible what time it was and how far the castle had moved in the night. When he parted the curtains and looked out, however, he almost fell backward in surprise. 

Rather than the moorland where he had entered the castle, John found himself looking out on a completely unfamiliar port town, bustling with morning activity. He moved to the door and opened it, sticking his head out. He was looking at the moorlands, a few kilometers north of where he had entered the castle. He shut the door and moved back to the window. The port town bustled with activity, birds landing and taking off from docked ships and children playing in the streets as their parents tried to round them up.

John's head was beginning to hurt again.

"This... How..." John stammered at the fire.

"Oh that," Mrs. Hudson said lightly. "That's a magic door, of course. See the wheel?"

John looked beside the door to find a small wheel with four colors on it and an arrow pointing at the green side.

"Each color corresponds to a different location," the fire explained.

"Why does the window show something different than the door?" John asked.

"Oh, that's because the real house is in Porthaven," Mrs. Hudson explained. "The other locations are portals."

"Oh," John said, his head somehow hurting even more. 

He turned from the window and began making his way through the room, glancing down at the piles of papers and books. There were several files that looked to contain information about various crimes. John picked one up and found pictures of a rather gruesome murder. He put it back down where he found it.

The books covered topics ranging from anatomy to history, though only a particular kind of history that dealt, primarily, with crime, he noticed. There were several books containing odd formulas and strange letter and number combinations that John could not interpret. He assumed it was a strange foreign language or books of spells.  

He examined the items on the only vaguely clean table in the room. There were several clear containers of various shapes and sizes, some of which contained liquids or powders. There was also some kind of machine that looked like a very small telescope, but pointed downward. 

Beside the equipment, he found a book titled  _The Science of Deduction_ with the name Sherlock Holmes printed neatly on the cover. He picked it up and began reading. After only a few moments, however, he sat it back down with a scoff and moved away.

On the other side of the room, he found a door leading to what he assumed was probably a kitchen. He had to assume because it was just as chaotic and dirty as the other room. Sighing, he stumbled his way through the mess to what he believed was a cupboard and found, to his delight, actual food.

He gathered some oats, brown sugar, and water into a pan and moved back, very slowly, to the fire.

"Oh no deary," the fire said as he approached. "I don't cook. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Then how, exactly, does anybody eat around here?" John sighed.

"I'm sure there's some bread somewhere," Mrs. Hudson eyed the pan and flared up.

"Nope," John said with finality, "I am not having bread for every meal while I'm here. Come on. Let's get this done so I can get started clearing some of this mess up."

"I said no," Mrs. Hudson said petulantly.

"Fine then," John said, his tone nonchalant. "I suppose I could just leave then. Or perhaps I should tell Wizard Holmes about our deal?"

The fire flared again, but soon settled down. 

"Fine," it said bending down hesitantly as John put the pan on top of it, "but I'm still not your housekeeper."

"Yes, I am fully aware," John mumbled as he began stirring the oats and pulled out his watch to keep track of the time.

He was so caught up in tending to his breakfast that he didn't notice the door open until a voice broke his concentration.

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper," a deep and somehow familiar voice startled John so much that he almost dropped the pan.

He turned as quickly as his aching body would allow and found himself face to face with the mysterious stranger he had met in Market Chipping just a few days prior. John stared, his mouth slightly ajar.

"I'm not," the fire's voice was slightly muffled under the pan. "I would just like to see you actually eat for once, Sherlock."

Wizard Holmes rolled his eyes and took a step closer, moving into John's personal space and examining him.

"Not just anybody can get Mrs. Hudson to bend down to cook," the wizard said. 

"Wizard Holmes, I..." John began.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock had moved into the room and was flitting about the boxes and papers. 

"Er, right," John said, still staring at the strange man. "I'm John."

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John glanced around him, trying to figure out what Sherlock was talking about.

"The violin," Sherlock was perched near the strange equipment, fiddling with something John couldn't make out. "I play when I think. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Flatmates?" John stared, brow furrowed.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. "You'll be staying, correct?"

"Just like that?" John had entirely forgotten about his breakfast.

"Problem?" Sherlock turned to look at him.

"We don't know a thing about each other," John replied.

Sherlock grinned. "I know you are an army doctor invalidated home from Zanzib. I know you have a brother, but you won't go to him for help. Probably because of his alcoholism. I think that's enough to be getting on with."

John stared, dumbfounded. 

"How did you know about Zanzib?" he asked finally.

Sherlock smiled. "Simple. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. You were on your way to the herb shop, so healer. Obvious. Your face is tan, but no tan above the wrist. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You've sustained an injury to your shoulder -- you hold it stiffly and favor your other arm. So, war, desert, injury -- Zanzib."

John's eyes had widened.

"Then there's your brother," Sherlock continued. 

"Yes, how did you know about that?" John asked.

"You pocket watch," Sherlock said, pointing to the watch. "It is an expensive piece, but you are wearing inexpensive clothing and have no other luxury items. A gift then. The next part is easy, you know it already."

"The engraving," John said, turning the watch over in his hand and running his finger over Harry's name. "How did you know we don't get along?"

"You are alone and have no place to go, or you wouldn't be here," Sherlock continued. "So no extended family. Brother it is then. He gave it to you, so he clearly wants you to stay in touch, but you didn't go to him. That means you've got problems with him. Likely because he is an alcoholic."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark, but a good one though," Sherlock said, grinning. "The area around the key hole is scratched. The person who turned it had shaky hands. Never see a drunk's watch without those marks."

"That was amazing," John said with a curt nod.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked, his back turned and his voice soft.

"Of course it was," John turned back to his breakfast, which was beginning to burn. "Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock murmured.

"What do people normally say?" John glanced back over.

"Piss off," Sherlock finally turned to meet his eyes.

They both grinned.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and I don't get on," John murmured, turning back to the food. "We haven't seen one another in years. Harry is a drinker."

"I got everything right?" Sherlock asked. 

"Harry is short for Harriet," John pulled the pan off the fire and turned to look for bowls.

"Sister!" Sherlock growled. "She's your sister. It's always something."

John found two mismatched bowls and scooped the oats into them, looking around for spoons. Once he had found them, he moved back to the main room and sat the bowl in front of Sherlock, who glanced at it and then ignored it completely. 

"Eat," John said, sinking down into the red chair again and working on his own bowl.

Sherlock shot him a glare, but picked up the bowl. 

"What is all this," John asked, gesturing to the piles of papers and files.

"Cases," Sherlock murmured, moving over to the fire and settling in the black chair across from John's.

John glanced around again, confused. "Cases? What kind of cases?"

"Crimes," Sherlock responded, picking at his oats.

"Why do you have files of crimes?" John asked.

"It is my job," Sherlock said. "I'm a consulting wizard. The only one -- I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"It means that, when the royal detectives are out of their league, which is always, they come to me. I solve crimes," Sherlock responded.

John stared. "So, you're a wizard who solves crimes? A wizard detective?"

"Precisely," Sherlock said, ignoring the incredulity in John's tone.

"Er, right," John went back to eating.

They sat in companionable silence for several long minutes while John went over the information he had just learned in his head before his thoughts were finally interrupted by a knock at the door.


	5. In Which Sherlock Gets a Case

The knock at the door jolted John out of his reverie. 

"Kingbury door," Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and set his bowl down near the fire before making his way to the door. He turned the wheel to red and opened the door. John craned his neck to see out and was only slightly surprised to find an entirely different street from the one outside the window. From his place near the fire, he could see little of the street outside, but what he did see were clearly colorful and rather expensive looking houses.

"Hi Sherlock," the man standing in the doorway was dressed in a suit and had pepper grey hair and a face lined with worry.

"Lestrade," Sherlock's tone bleed contempt, "I've already told you. I'm not looking for her."

"This isn't about that," the man -- Lestrade -- said with a slight sigh. "I've got a case I need some help with."

Even from where he was sitting, John could see Sherlock's back straighten. He seemed to fill with energy, radiating out from his entire body.

"What case?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"It's a strange one," Lestrade said, moving into the room. 

He spotted John and stopped.

"Who's this?" he asked, clearly suspicious.

"That's John," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "He's with me. Now tell me about the case."

Lestrade shot John a look before continuing. 

"There have been three murders," he said. "Each victim was found in a known haunted location and no cause of death has been determined. Locals are saying that the ghosts are sucking the souls out of people and the King is concerned about a panic."

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed. "How far apart were the murders?"

"There seems to be no pattern," Lestrade said. "The first occurred three months ago. The last two one week apart. Then another month before this one. Will you take the case?"

Sherlock nodded. "Leave the details and the case files. I'll be right behind you."

Lestrade nodded and, shooting John one last glance, moved back out the door.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock shouted, "yes!" jumping in the air as though he were a child receiving the only gift he'd ever wanted.

"Brilliant," Sherlock hummed. "Ghosts, murders, no cause of death. Perfect!"

John raised an eyebrow, watching the seemingly out of character behavior with amusement. Sherlock was running around the room with a wide smile on his face. He grabbed the coat he had taken off when he entered and wrapped a scarf around his neck before rushing out the door.

John stared at the door for a moment before sighing and turning back to the fire.

"Such energy, that one," Mrs. Hudson said. "You're more the sitting down type though. I can tell. Best to rest your leg anyway."

"Damn my leg," John shouted before he realized what he was doing. "Sorry! I am so sorry."

"Oh, no worries dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed. "I understand. Why don't you make yourself a cup of tea."

John glared at the fire, trying not to be annoyed. He was just contemplating trying to find a kettle when the door burst open again. Sherlock moved slowly into the room.

"You're a healer," he said, staring at John. "A war healer."

"Yes," John turned to face him in his chair.

"Any good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very good," John replied.

"Seen a lot of trouble, I suppose," Sherlock continued, stepping forward.

"Yes," John replied, straightening his back in his chair. "Enough for a lifetime."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh god yes," John was pushing himself to his feet before he had finished talking and following Sherlock out the door into the strange new city.

* * *

They were sitting in the back of a carriage, rattling along the wide streets of Kingsbury toward the latest crime scene. John's attention had been caught, initially, by the rather grandiose city outside his window. It was even more extravagant than his brief glance had hinted.

The houses that lined the street were all large and new and the people walking about were in elaborate robes and dresses. In the distance, John could see a large dome surrounded by several turrets. 

"Where are we?" he asked after they had crossed several streets.

"Kingsbury," Sherlock said dismissively. "The king's city."

"Oh," John said, astonished. "And... we're going to investigate a ghost?"

"What?" Sherlock shot him a look. "No, we're going to investigate a murder."

"A murder committed by a ghost," John prompted.

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured. "Need more data."

John hesitated, feeling rather foolish.

"Are ghosts real then?" he asked finally.

"Of course they are," Sherlock said, turning back to the window. "We're here."

John glanced out to find they had left the center of the city and were now surrounded by rather decrepit buildings, most of which looked long abandoned. Sherlock had already exited the carriage and was walking toward a three level house that appeared to have been built at least a century before and looked about ready to crumble under its own weight. John pushed his way out of the carriage, thanking the driver and rushing as well as he could to catch up.

Lestrade was standing in front of the door, which sat crooked on it rusty hinges

"Body's on the third floor," he said, eyeing John again. "You might want to wait here, mate."

"I said he's with me," Sherlock said, brushing past Lestrade and motioning for John to follow.

John hesitated a moment, but then Sherlock shot him a look of annoyance over his shoulder and he followed.  

When he entered the dusty room, he was confronted with a set of steep stairs ascending to the next floor. Sherlock was already halfway up and moving quickly. John sighed and began making his slow progress up. Each step sent of shock of pain up his leg and he had to make an effort not to groan aloud. Lestrade and several other people brushed past him as he make his slow progress and John felt humiliation burn in his stomach.

It seemed to take an eternity for him to reach the third level. At the top of the landing, several doors stood in a semi circle, only one of which was open. Inside, Sherlock was crouched over the figure of a woman leaning against the far wall. 

"Whose this?" a petite, dark woman asked Lestrade, gesturing to John as he entered the room.

"He's my colleague, Sally" Sherlock called.

"Colleague?" Sally asked, looking incredulous. "How does the freak get a colleague. Did he follow you home?" She directed the last question at John, who raised an eyebrow at her.

"John," Sherlock had stood and faced him. "What do you think?"

John glanced at Lestrade, who shrugged.

"Go ahead," he said. "Might as well."

John moved toward the body, feeling anticipation rising in his chest. The woman was well dressed in a long robe adorned with lace and jewels. Her eyes were closed and he could see no obvious marks on her.

"What am I doing here?" John asked.

"Helping solve a murder," Sherlock responded.

"Why?" John asked, staring at the body.

"Because it's fun," Sherlock replied.

"Fun? Somebody's dead," John looked up at Sherlock.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you would go deeper," Sherlock responded.

John rolled his eyes and, very carefully, squatted down next to the body, gingerly moving his leg so that it was out of the way. He looked closely at the woman's face. He couldn't smell alcohol and he saw no signs of asphyxiation. He looked at her neck, but again saw no marks. She was pale and stiff, but otherwise showed no obvious signs of trauma.

"I can't tell without an autopsy," he said finally. "Heart attack, perhaps?"

"She's quite young for a heart attack," Sherlock commented.

"Yes, she is," John acceded, "but it isn't unheard of."

"It is for four separate people, all well under middle age, to have heart attacks in supposedly haunted buildings," Sherlock said, grinning.

John nodded. "That is odd."

"I'll need the body taken to Molly," Sherlock said over his shoulder to Lestrade.

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade said with exasperation. "I'm breaking all the rules just letting you in here."

"Because you need me," Sherlock said, nonchalant. 

Lestrade stared at him for a beat, then threw his hands down by his side.

"You're right, damn you," he said. "Fine. I'll get it there, but you'd better find something worth the risk."

"I always do," Sherlock said, grinning down at John.


	6. In Which John Meets a Pathologist and a Violin

After the body was removed, Sherlock spent what felt to John like a very long time at the crime scene, seemingly inspecting nothing at all. Then, without a word, he simply stood and left. John stood in the room a moment, leaning on his cane and staring at the door, before he finally realized Sherlock wouldn't be coming back and followed. 

When John got back down to the street, he found Sherlock waiting in the carriage. He got in and asked where they were going now.

"The lab," Sherlock said as they set off.

John wasn't entirely certain what a "lab" was, but Sherlock seemed deep in his own thoughts, so John thought it best not to disturb him.

They arrived, some time later, at a large, square building that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a hospital. John had never seen one in person, though he had heard about them in the war. He had been treated in a war clinic, which was as close to a hospital as he had ever seen, but nothing compared to this building, which was bustling with activity and full of strange equipment John had only ever heard about. He wanted to stop and examine everything, but Sherlock lead the way though the main doors and down a flight of stairs to a basement level, where a set of double doors stood at the end of a long hallway.

Through the double doors, John found himself staring at rows of small doors and several shiny metal tables. A woman was standing beside one table, on which lay the body he had seen at the crime scene. She was now naked, however, and on her back. John winced internally a bit at how inhuman it all seemed, but was glad to have a better look at the body.

"Hi Sherlock," the young woman said, her cheeriness contrasting sharply with her surroundings.

She was small and rather meek, with mousy hair tied back in a long pony tale. Her entire face seemed to light up when she saw Sherlock and John wondered if this was one of the hearts he had "eaten". 

"Hello Molly," Sherlock murmured, stepping closer. "I see you've prepared the body. Excellent."

"Er, of course," she cooed, then, seeing John, her face fell a bit. "Who's this?"

"Oh, right," Sherlock turned to John with a look that clearly read annoyance with social niceties, "John Watson, this is Molly Hooper, the pathologist here at the hospital. John is working with me."

"Oh," Molly said, clearly surprised.

"Pathologist?" John asked.

"Hmm, yes," Sherlock murmured, leaning in closer to the body. "She discovers the cause of death in patients who are deceased and often helps with the crimes I work on. Quite useful."

Molly blushed at this.

Sherlock had pulled out a small instrument and was examining the body closely. John moved over to stand next to him, looking over his shoulder and trying to find anything on the body that might indicate cause of death. The body looked completely normal -- no obvious marks or injuries and no signs of asphyxiation. John was disappointed -- he had wanted to be useful, but he was clearly out of his depth.

Before John had realized how much time had passed, Sherlock straightened suddenly and turned to him.

"Look here," he said, handing John the small piece of equipment, which turned out to be a magnifying lens.

John moved to where Sherlock was pointing and looked through the magnifying lens. At first he saw nothing. But after a moment more of very careful examination, he found what had drawn Sherlock's attention.

"A puncture mark," John said softly, leaning closer to get a better look. "Looks like it's from a needle. Made prior to death."

"Exactly," Sherlock said.

"Poison?" John asked.

"Not enough data," Sherlock returned, turning to Molly. "We need a full tox screen, as fast as you can. Send the results to me in Kingsbury. Mrs. Hudson will let you in if we aren't there."

"Yes, of course," Molly said, smiling at them as they turned to leave again.

* * *

When they arrived back at the castle, John's mind was racing. He hadn't had so much excitement since the war. He had even almost managed to forget about the alternately aching and shooting pains in his leg and shoulder. 

He was a bit relieved to be back in the room with the cozy fire and soft chair for a while, though he was a surprised to find himself there. He had been certain Sherlock would not rest until the case was solved. 

"What are we doing?" John asked as Sherlock flitted around the room, moving books and boxes.

"Waiting and researching," Sherlock responded.

"Waiting for what?" John asked, turning slightly in his chair to watch as Sherlock pulled several books from a shelve and stacked them on a nearby table.

"For the witness we are going to be interviewing," he said, moving to John with several of the books. "Read these."

John glanced down at the books to find several titles pertaining to ghosts or haunting and a few pertaining to poisons and herbs. He raised an eyebrow at the pile, wondering exactly how long they would be waiting if Sherlock actually expected him to make it through all the books before they left.

"Why don't we interview the witness now?" John asked, picking up the first book and thumbing through the pages.

"Can't," Sherlock mumbled, moving more boxes and shuffling papers.

"Why not?" John asked, glancing up from the book.

"We have to wait for nightfall," Sherlock responded.

John raised an eyebrow, but gave up on questioning further, turning instead to his book. 

He was so engrossed the in the text he had chosen -- an in depth analysis of medicinal uses of plants and herbs -- that he hadn't noticed how much time had passed or what Sherlock had been doing. His attention was returned to the world around him, however, when a beautiful melody caught his attention.

He looked up to find Sherlock, standing near the window, violin in hand, playing a song that John had never heard. It sent tingles down his spine. He stared, eyes wide, letting the melody wash over him.

As he watched Sherlock's long, nimble fingers glide over the violin, he wondered at the incongruity of the man before him and the man he had pictured before they met. Before him stood the famed wizard who scared all who dared go alone -- the man who eats hearts and sucks souls -- creating pure beauty, not just with the music, but with his entire body. His eyes were closed and he looked completely at peace -- an expression John had not yet seen in their short time together. 

_I play the violin when I think_ , he remembered the man saying. John found himself hoping he would need to think often.

He was disappointed, therefore, when a knock at the door interrupted Sherlock's playing. 

"Kingsbury door," Mrs. Hudson called.

Sherlock sat the violin carefully down by the window and moved quickly to the door, opening it to find Molly, shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking nervous.

"Molly," Sherlock said, gesturing for her to enter. "Good. Have you got the results?"

"Er, yes," Molly mumbled, glancing down at the file in her hands. "I'm afraid I didn't find much though."

Sherlock reached for the file and began flipping through its contents.

"Slightly elevated potassium levels where the only anomaly," Molly said, frowning. "Everything else was completely normal. No poison."

"Hmmm," Sherlock was still staring at the file. "Thank you Molly."

Sherlock continued reading the file, now completely ignoring Molly. She glanced over at John, clearly uncomfortable.

"Hello John," she said, tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear.

"Hi Molly," John sent her a sympathetic smile. "How did you determine there were no poisons in her system? And get her potassium level?"

"Oh," Molly's face brightened, "Sherlock showed me how a long time ago. I was his apprentice, you see. It is really quite a fascinating process! First, you take a blood sample and..."

"John," Sherlock, who had clearly been paying no attention to Molly, interrupted, "let's go."

"Er, alright," John shot an apologetic look at Molly. "You'll have to show me. That could be really useful!"

"Ah, yes, of course," Molly stammered, moving out of Sherlock's way as he grabbed his coat and scarf.

"Come on John," Sherlock said impatiently as John pushed his aching body slowly up from the chair. "We've got an appointment with a ghost."

"A ghost?" John and Molly both asked simultaneously.

Sherlock simply smiled and swept out the door, leaving John and Molly to stare at one another in shock.


	7. In Which John and Sherlock Interview a Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Back to updating this story regularly now.

By the time they arrived back at the crime scene, night had fallen in earnest. There was no moon that night and no working street lamps in the run down neighborhood, so John was having trouble seeing even a few feet in front of his face.

"What's the plan?" John asked as they walked toward the slightly agar door.

"We are going to draw out the ghosts that haunt the building and ask them if they saw anything," Sherlock answered, pulling the door open.

"Er, right," John followed Sherlock into the building, already feeling the hair on his neck stand on end. "I meant, what are we going to do if the ghosts aren't friendly? We can't exactly kill them before they kill us."

"No, we can't," Sherlock murmured, making his way up the steep stairs.

John sighed. Clearly he wasn't going to be getting a better answers. He glanced around nervously before following Sherlock up the steps, wincing as his cane made a soft noise on every step.

When he finally reached the room in which the body had been found, Sherlock was already crouched near the wall, making strange marks on the floor with a piece of chalk. John moved over to him and glanced down at the marks, but could decipher no meaning from them.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A spell," Sherlock apparently finished and wiped his hands together as he stood. "It will attract any ghost in the vicinity to this spot."

"Won't they just come out on their own?" John asked. "Isn't that what ghosts do in haunted houses?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock was examining his work, "but this is more certain."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. He certainly knew less about ghosts than Sherlock apparently did. And he certainly wasn't going to argue with a wizard about a spell.

"Stand there," Sherlock pointed to one side of the circle he had drawn, just at the top of a jagged symbol.

John, growing equal parts anxious and excited, moved where Sherlock had pointed as Sherlock moved to the opposite side of the circle. He watched, fascinated, as Sherlock made complicated gestures with his hand while softly murmuring words in a language John had never before heard. Then, after a long moment, he stopped and looked up at John.

"Be ready," he murmured.

John nodded, glancing down at the circle.

A seemingly endless period passed in which nothing happened and neither man moved or spoke. John was barely even breathing. Then, so suddenly that John nearly stumbled backward, something appeared.

The thing in the center of the circle was nothing like what John had expected of a ghost. He had thought they were transparent and ethereal. This was neither.

The thing, instead, was quite solid and just slightly taller than John. It's skin looked decayed and diseased, with a greenish tint and several areas that looked eaten away. It's teeth were jagged and sharp, like broken glass, and it's eyes were entirely black. But the most striking thing about he creature to John was its stench. In the war, John had encountered his share of death and he knew the smell well. This thing, however, smelled more pungent than John anything he had ever encountered.

The creature, for John could not bring himself to think of it as anything else, growled menacingly and John instinctively reached for the gun he had hidden in his trousers before he left the clinic.

"I don't mean you any harm," Sherlock said softly.

The creature turned toward him, its fangs bared.

"I just want to ask you some questions about the body that was left here," John could see from where he was standing that Sherlock had tensed, ready to move.

The creature was still for a breath. Then, without warning, it leapt toward Sherlock, its teeth bared and its arms, which ended in deadly looking claws, extended.

Sherlock leapt out of the way just in time to avoid the attack and the creature slammed into the wall with enough force to make the nearby window rattle.

John had pulled out the gun the moment the creature had moved and now pointed it directly at its chest, unsure whether it would make any difference.

"Don't move!" John yelled.

The creature turned toward him, giving Sherlock enough time the scramble off the ground to his feet.

The creature lunged again, this time for John. Without even thinking, John pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the thing square in the chest and it slowed slightly, but did not stop.

John braced himself for the impact just as the creature slammed into him. His breath left him in a huff and he hit the ground hard, his cane spiraling out of his grasp. He felt the creatures claws tearing at his sides and tried desperately to get enough leverage to push it off.

Just as John was truly beginning to believe he was going to die on that ground, so close to the body he had examined only that morning, the creature disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. Panting, John raised his head to find Sherlock crouching over the circle, the chalk lying nearby, his hands in the air in mid gesture.

"John!" Sherlock rushed over to crouch over him and John tried to push him away, but found he was shaking. "Are you okay? Can you walk?"

"I'm fine," John said, hoping dearly that he was right.

He place the hand of his good arm on his side and felt blood, but the cuts didn't seem to be deep enough to be dangerous. Sherlock's eyes were tense as he examined John's other side.

"They're just scratches," John said, pushing himself up on his elbow with a grunt.

Sherlock nodded, still looking tense.

"Well, that was informative," he said tersely.

"Is that what you call it?" John grinned up at him, pushing himself slowly to his feet.

Sherlock grinned back, handing John his cane.

"Come on," he said quickly, "we need to move. That spell will keep the ghost out for a while, but it won't last forever. It could come back any moment."

John raised an eyebrow and nodded curtly. The last thing he wanted was to encounter that thing again.

"Good shot, by the way," Sherlock said as they made their way back to the stairs.

"It didn't exactly help," he said.

"It slowed it down," Sherlock said, grinning. "And it was still a good shot."

John smiled.


	8. In Which Sherlock and John Solve a Case

Sherlock handed John the first aid kit while Mrs. Hudson ‘tsked’ their dangerous escapades. As he opened the kit and gingerly pulled off his top, trying not to jar his bad shoulder, he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. He tried to ignore it and began working on his side. 

The wounds really weren't bad. The deepest might have done well with stitches, but it would be fine without them and John wasn't keen on trying to stitch with one hand. Though, being left handed made it awkward working with his right hand, he managed his left side quickly and easily enough. When he began on his right side, however, he found that he could only reach the furthest cuts with both pain and difficulty due to his shoulder. He was struggling to even clean the wounds, much less dress them. 

After a long moment of struggling and trying not to show it, he heard a rustle by his side and then felt a hand on his right arm.

"Let me," Sherlock was crouching beside him, looking at the cuts with an expression John couldn't place.

John hesitated. For some reason he couldn't fathom, he was reticent to have Sherlock so close to him, touching his naked side. But, he had littlechance of taking proper care of the wounds otherwise, so he sighed and handed Sherlock the kit.

Sherlock's hand touched John's side very gently and John shivered. Sherlock long fingers, so dexterous on the violin, worked quickly and efficiently, though always gently, on his wounds. Before John had collected himself, Sherlock was finished and packing up the first aid kit again. John felt several things at once, not all of which he could identify. 

"Thank you," John murmured. 

Sherlock perched in the chair across from him, his hands clasped in front of his chin. 

"It wasn't the ghost, clearly," he said.

John had to gather his thoughts before he figured out Sherlock was talking about the case.

"Why not," John asked, confused. "It clearly wasn't a friendly ghost."

Sherlock looked over his tipped fingers at John.

"No, it wasn't," he said. "But you don't look particularly like our corpse right now, do you?"

John looked down at his bandaged sides.

"Oh," he said, simply.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "That ghost is certainly capable of killing, but not in the way that the victims were killed. And anyway, the body had been moved there, not killed there."

"How do you know," John asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Dust," Sherlock replied, whipping at a patch of dust on a nearby stack of folders for emphasis. "Dust is elegant. Can't be replaced. There were tracks in the dust, almost lost due to the king's incompetent investigators, but enough was left to show the marks of a body being dragged."

John marveled at him a moment in silence, still completely unbelieving that anybody could be so smart.

"Then what killed them?" John asked.

"That is the question," Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Hmmm," John hummed to himself. He went over the details of the case in his mind, speaking softly to himself. "Victims have no obvious cause of death. All found in a haunted location, but the last victim couldn't have been killed by the ghost. And nothing unusual in the tox screen or blood. Well, nothing except the slight potassium elevation, but that wasn't enough to..."

"Potassium!" Sherlock shouted suddenly.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hudson flared up in surprise.

"John," Sherlock stood on his chair before crossing to John's in two long strides and putting his hands on John's shoulders. "You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are brilliant!"

"Okay," John said, frowning. "Wait, what?"

"The potassium!" Sherlock repeated. 

John shook his head, waiting for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock simply stared at him, as though dumbfounded John wasn't understanding whatever it was he wasn't saying. 

After a moment, Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the book John had been reading, flipping through it quickly, then thrusting the open book at John. John stared down at the page, which was showing the plant curare, a thick vine that grew in temperate climates in thick forests. John knew that the plant extracts were used in anesthetics, but he couldn't figure out why Sherlock was showing it to him.

He looked up, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Succinylcholine," Sherlock said, exasperated. "C14H30N2O4+2. The compounds from the curare plant--toxiferines--cause neuromuscular paralysis, but the human body converts succinylcholine to potassium. The victims would have been paralyzed and died of a heart attack, but the only sign would be a slight elevation in potassium."

"Brilliant!" John said, smiling up at Sherlock.

John thought he saw Sherlock grin, but it was gone too quickly to be certain. 

"We have the means of death," Sherlock said, pacing up and down the small room. "Now we just need the murderer."

"Do the victims have anything in common," John asked, following Sherlock with his eyes. 

"Two men, one woman," Sherlock began. "No relation. There are no indications that they knew one another. Different professions. Different name, hair color, and body types."

"Well," John said, contemplating this, "whoever poisoned them had to have a good amount of money and possibly space. Curare doesn't grow in this climate and the plant itself is not cheap to import. It would make sense to get a small plant and then grow it, but that would take a greenhouse with a good amount of space."

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at John, wordlessly, for a heartbeat. Then he tore through the room and picked up the case files, which he had left on the table by the fire. He stood, silently reading for several long moments while John watched, trying to figure out what was going on. 

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, throwing down one folder and picking up the next. "Yes! Yes!" he said, getting louder with each folder. "That's it, John. Come on!"

 

* * *

 

They were in the carriage and moving before John had truly processed what had happened. 

"Are you going to share what's going on now?" John asked, glancing out the window to see they were moving toward the center of the city.

"Somebody with a lot of money and potentially a lot of space in a greenhouse," Sherlock's eyes were lit with an energy that John found both captivating and contagious. 

"Er, yeah?" John had no idea why Sherlock was reiterating what they had already discussed, but he thought that, if he just didn't interrupt, he would probably get to the point eventually. 

"Well," Sherlock continued, "who in this city had the those exact means?"

John raised an eyebrow, wondering how in Ingary he would know such a thing. Sherlock sighed.

"The victims didn't appear to have anything in common," he continued. "But we just weren't looking widely enough. Each victim is connected through various degrees of separation, to the King's palace."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Isn't that normal for this city?" he asked. "It being the King's city and all."

"Yes, quite," Sherlock said. "Which is why I didn't notice until now."

"Notice what?" John was becoming impatient, but before Sherlock could answer, the carriage stopped outside of the palace and Sherlock jumped out.

John followed as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the pain in his leg as he listened to Sherlock's manic speech.

"The first victim worked with the palace healer," Sherlock was saying as he made his way toward the castle gate. "The second was a ship man on a vessel that imports items for the castle, among other entities."

Sherlock reached the gate and mumbled a few soft words to the guard, whose eyes glazed over. Sherlock motioned for John to follow and they slipped past the guard without incident. 

"And the last victim," he continued as though nothing had just happened, "has a daughter training to be an intern with the palace gardener."

John began to see the pieces falling together now.

"Palace officials are paid well," Sherlock continued. "And one particular employee would have easy access to a greenhouse with plenty of space."

"The King's gardener?" John asked, astonished.

Sherlock smiled. 

"But why?" John couldn't fathom the gardener's motive.

"It seems likely that the victims each found out about the curare plant the gardener is hiding," Sherlock said.

"But why have the plant in the first place?" John asked.

"Exactly," Sherlock grinned. 

They had reached the greenhouse, which stood near the far eastern edge of the palace grounds, without being noticed by anybody. John strongly suspected Sherlock had used a spell of some sort. Every time they passed a person, the person's eyes would slide away from them, as though they had suddenly noticed something important in the opposite direction. 

Sherlock pushed his way into the greenhouse, John moving in behind him. They stood in the door for a moment while Sherlock inspected the area. Finally, as though he had seen something invisible to John, Sherlock moved confidently forward and to the left. John followed, not questioning Sherlock's judgement. 

The greenhouse was filled with more plant varieties than John had ever seen in his life, from large trees to tiny flowers. John admired the medicinal herbs he had only ever read about as they passed them and envied the palace healers. 

They had moved into a large area filled with tall trees now and John was having trouble seeing in the relative dark under the thick canopy. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble discerning his way. He moved confidently through the trees as John stumbled after him, trying not to get his cane caught on any roots or branches.

Sherlock stopped suddenly, almost causing John to run into his back. He pointed and John looked over his shoulder to find a patch of trees wound round with thick vines.

"Curare," John said, admiring the rare plant.

John moved forward to run his hand over the thick vine. Sherlock was examining another vine next to him closely and John was watching him out of the corner of his eye, curious about what he was finding.

A movement near Sherlock caught John's attention, just on the periphery of his vision. Instinct took over and he lunged, knocking Sherlock to the ground just as a tall, thin man with peppery grey hair jumped forward. Looking up, John could see the man had a syringe in his hand.

John moved to the side as Sherlock grunted and pushed himself up. The man corrected himself almost instantly and moved toward them. John rolled to the side as the syringe came down toward them and Sherlock kicked out, landing a hit just on the man's chest. 

He grunted and stumbled backward. John pushed his cane out, catching the man's leg and bringing him crashing down to the ground. Sherlock was up in a flash and on top of the man, his knee pressed firmly into the man's chest and his hand gripping the hand holding the syringe.

John pushed himself up to his knees and moved over to Sherlock and the man, grabbing the hand holding the syringe and twisting until he dropped it with a groan.

The man struggled for a moment before growling with frustration and giving up. 

"Well," Sherlock said, looking down at the man, "I believe we have a few things to discuss."


	9. In Which a Shot is Fired and Magic is Discussed

When Lestrade arrived at the greenhouse, he found the gardener, Jacol Seera, tied to a tree and with rope that Sherlock had fetched while John held the man at gunpoint. The gun, however, was now securely hidden, being illegal for citizens to own.

Sherlock had tried questioning Jacol, but to little effect. The man remained tight lipped and stubbornly silent. 

"I wish you would get me before you do these kinds of things," Lestrade grumbled as he approached the scene. 

"I don't see why," Sherlock murmured. "We clearly have things under control here."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but didn't argue.

"So, what's the story," Lestrade asked. "Why is this idiot poisoning people with a plant?"

“Each of the victims discovered the plant, which caused them to become targets,” Sherlock said. "He was clearly targeting somebody specific and each of the victims got in the way."

"Who is he targeting?" Lestrade asked.

"He won't say," John said, glaring at the man, who refused to even look up from his lap.

"Well," Lestrade said, pulling out chains and grinning at Jacol, "we've got plenty of time to figure that out now, don't we."

Before Lestrade could move a step closer to him, however, a shot rang out and Jacol fell forward, blood gushing from his chest.

John reacted immediately, without thought. He cried, "get down," and pushed Sherlock to the ground. Then, in the next instant, he was on top of Jacol, putting pressure on his chest and checking for a pulse. Jacol took a ragged breath, then stopped breathing entirely. John though he could hear shouting, but it was distant, as though hearing through a wall. 

A hand gripped his shoulder tightly, making him jump. He struggled to understand what was happening. He was being pulled away from the bleeding man. He needed to help. He needed to...

"John!" Sherlock's voice cut through his panic. "John, look at me."

John pulled his attention to Sherlock with a great effort. He felt dizzy and confused. He was breathing hard and his chest felt tight.

"John, breathe slowly," Sherlock was crouching in front of John, blocking his view of anything else. "Just concentrate on breathing."

John obeyed, finding the task more difficult than it should rightfully have been. Sherlock was looking over his shoulder, saying something that John couldn't make out.

"Come on," he said after a moment. "We're going home."

* * *

John spent the ride back to the castle leaning against the carriage door, trying not to shake or hyperventilate. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and he felt foolish, but could do nothing about it. He lacked even the energy to say anything.

He barely made it into the house and to his chair before he collapsed, feeling deeply shaken and exhausted. Vaguely, he could hear Sherlock bustling around him, then whispering something to Mrs. Hudson, but he didn't have the energy to make out what he was saying. 

After a long moment, during which John began nodding off, he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Sherlock staring at Mrs. Hudson, mumbling something. He thought he felt a cold tingle run through his arm, but he was asleep before he could be certain.

* * *

When John finally woke, it was light outside and he was stiff from sleeping in the chair, but he felt significantly better than the night before. He glanced around, but didn't see Sherlock anywhere.

"Where's Sherlock," John asked Mrs. Hudson, pulling a log from beside the fireplace and handing it to her.

"Oh, he went out," the fire replied. "He said something about giving Lestrade his report. Seemed annoyed, but you know how he is."

John was surprised to find that he did. He had known the man for a little over a day, but he felt he had known him for years. 

He sighed and glanced around the room, wishing he had been awake to accompany Sherlock and feeling rather useless. He decided he might as well tidy up while he was there, though the prospect of tackling the house seemed completely overwhelming. He felt that, if he were going to stay, he may as well be useful somehow.

He began by simply gathering the trash, which was piled in corners around small waste bins. He needed both hands, so he limped around without his cane, making slow progress. Once it was all together and in bag, he moved to the door to take it out, but paused, uncertain where he would come out if he opened it. 

"You'll want to use the blue door, honey," Mrs. Hudson called. "It's trash day there."

John looked over his shoulder at her.

"Which place is that?" he asked.

"Porthaven," she replied. "It's what you see out of the window."

John nodded and turned the nob to blue, stepping out to find himself surrounded by the smell of sea and salt in the air. He glanced around and found a well maintained, but modest port town, with a dock just visible in the distance. Seagulls circled above in the sky and the sound of ships’ horns filled the air. He stood for a moment, simply taking in the sight, before pulling the trash outside and depositing it in the appropriate place.

Stepping back inside, John stared at the colored wheel, going over what he already knew about it. The green knob was the door he had come in, so Chipping Valley. The red knob had led to the King's city, Kingsbury. The blue knob, he now knew, led to Porthaven. There was still, however, one color left undiscovered. He glanced over his shoulder at the fire.

"Where does the black door lead?" John asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Only Sherlock knows that, I'm afraid," the fire demon responded.

John stared at the door for a long moment. Then, before he could convince himself no to do it, he turned the knob to black and opened the door.

What he saw was... nothing. Not blackness or an empty room or a field, but actual nothingness. He had never experienced anything so unnerving. Trembling slightly, he slowly reached his hand out into the nothingness. He felt nothing--not hot or cold or damp or dry. He withdrew his hand and closed the door, deciding he would ask Sherlock about it when he returned.

By the time Sherlock returned, however, John was quite distracted and had forgotten all about the door. In his efforts to organize Sherlock's piles of files and papers and books, he had come across several items that appeared to be spells, many of which looked to have been written by Sherlock himself. He was perusing them with great interest when Sherlock interrupted him.

"I had everything organized," he said grumpily.

"No," John responded without looking up, "you had a great mess in piles. Now you've got everything organized. And you're welcome."

John looked up to find Sherlock scowling at him petulantly. He ignored this.

"Are these spells?" he held up a couple of the papers he had found.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock was still frowning.

"Did you write these?" John glanced back down at the pile.

"Some of them," Sherlock responded.

"Brilliant!" John said softly, shuffling through the papers again.

He glanced up just in time to catch Sherlock's eye, which seemed to be shining just a bit.

"Can you teach me about it?" John asked.

  
"I... of course, yes," Sherlock said, a slight crook to the corner of his mouth.

John beamed at him. This was his opportunity to potentially figure out a way to break Sherlock's contract with the fire demon and, perhaps, even find a way to break his own curse or fight the Witch of the Wastes.

  
"There are several components to a powerful magical spell," Sherlock began, falling into a didactic mode that made John grin. "Simpler spells are simply a combination of everyday ingredients in the right order and proportion, much like your healing remedies."

  
John nodded. That seemed simple enough. Perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as he had expected.

"More powerful and complex spells, however," Sherlock continued, picking up the papers and shuffling until he found a particular one, "contain several elements, including mixtures of ingredients, gestures, sigils, and chants."

John stopped grinning. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. 

"The spell tells you what components you will need," Sherlock continued, not noticing John's disappointment. "There are several types of spells--self-fulfilling or self-discovering, or simple incantation, or mixed action and speech. Some parts may be straightforward, but others are puzzles that need to be deciphered before you can get the meaning. Further, every powerful spell has at least one deliberate mistake or mystery in it to prevent accidents, which need to be spotted."

"Wow," John said, impressed by both the complicated process of magic as well as Sherlock's clearly intricate knowledge of it. "Well, that all sounds good, but I haven't got a magical bone in my body, so it won't do me much good."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at it in an expression that John could not interpret.

"Many simpler spell require no magic at all," he said. "It is simply chemistry with magical elements."

"Chemistry?" John asked.

"Hmmm, yes," Sherlock said, looking down at the stack of spells again. "It has to do with how matter works at an elemental level, as well as how elements interact with one another."

"Oh," John said, not understanding a word.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment.

"I have to go out," he said finally. "I'll find a simple spell and leave it for you by the fire. Try it while I'm gone."

"Are you sure?" John asked, imagining himself accidentally blowing up the house or something worse.

Sherlock smiled.

"I have every faith in you, John."


	10. In Which John tries a Spell and Meets a Scarecrow

While Sherlock prepared to leave for... whatever it was he was going to do, John wandered upstairs to the second bedroom Mrs. Hudson had mentioned. It was a much nicer room than he was used to having and, much to his delight, it was actually clean and furnished. He hadn't brought much with him, but what little he had, he sorted into the room, feeling strangely at home already. Then he wandered to the window, looking out to find Porthaven's quaint seaside houses and shops. He stared at it for a long time, marveling at how different his life had become in such a short time--at how different it had become from what he had expected and resigned himself to. 

By the time John finally made his way back downstairs, the sun was beginning to fall and Sherlock was gone.  

"How do you like your room, love?" Mrs. Hudson was cheerily blazing in her fireplace, smiling at him as he came down the stairs.

"It is wonderful, Mrs. Hudson," he said, making his way to his chair and setting his cane against the fireplace.

"Oh good," she said. "Sherlock will be pleased."

John doubted whether Sherlock would care or notice, but he didn't say so. His name had reminded John that he was supposed to be working on the spell Sherlock had left for him. He glanced around the area near the fireplace and spotted a piece of paper laying on the ground.  _Just like him,_ John thought, bending down to retrieve the paper. 

Once he got the paper, he settled back in his chair and lay it on his lap to read. He was surprised when he began reading, however. The spell seemed nothing like the spells he had seen in the stack earlier. He assumed it must be because this spell was meant for beginners. Or perhaps Sherlock had given him a deliberately confusing spell, just to annoy him.

The spell read:  

 

_Go and catch a falling star,_

_Get with child a mandrake root,_

_Tell me where all past years are,_

_Or who cleft the devil's foot,_

_Teach me to hear mermaids singing,_

_Or to keep off envy's stinging,_

_And find_

_What wind_

_Serves to advance an honest mind._

 

John read it over and over, but came no closer to deciphering its meaning. He thought back to what Sherlock had said about spells:

_There are several types of spells--self-fulfilling or self-discovering, or simple incantation, or mixed action and speech._

John tried simply saying the spell aloud. Nothing happened, except that Mrs. Hudson told him it was lovely and asked him where he had gotten it.

"It's from Sherlock," John murmured, not paying her much attention.

"Oh, how romantic," she cooed.

"Hmmm," John was rereading the spell again and took a moment to catch up to what she had said. "No. No, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not his date. It isn't like that."

"Oh, I don't judge," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

John pursed his lips, but didn't respond.

If the spell were not a simple incantation, then perhaps it was a potion. Perhaps he needed to find the ingredients in the words--self-discovering, as Sherlock had said. He read the spell again, but could make no progress on it. 

He had picked up a stack of clean paper and was beginning to make notes--such as falling star equals meteor? Does Mrs. Hudson know who cleft the devil's foot, being a demon and all?--when a knock at the door interrupted him.

"Chipping Valley," Mrs. Hudson called. 

He had risen to answer without thinking and was already at the door, opening it, when Mrs. Hudson called out, "but I'm not sure you should, deary."

He was pulling open the door as she spoke, looking over his shoulder at her. When he turned back, now tense, he came face to face with the scarecrow he had unearthed on his way to Sherlock's castle. It was standing, balanced on the relatively thin stick around which it was composed, and as soon as John had opened the door, it had stuck it's stick arm into the open space as though it were trying to get in. 

John gasped, stumbling back as step as the stick arm thrust into his face. His breath caught in his throat and he felt ill. Then the adrenaline caught up to his system and he shoved at the scarecrow as hard as he could manage.

To his surprise, the thing was incredibly strong. He had to drop his cane and lean his entire weight against it just to budge it enough to close the door. When it was closed and secured, he leaned his weight against it, panting with the effort and his terror. 

_What the hell?_ John wondered if wizards dealt with these kinds of things all the time.

"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson asked.  

"I... I have no idea," John said. 

Behind his back, he could feel the door shaking with the thing's pounding.

"Can you move us away?" he asked. "Quickly?"

"Of course, deary," Mrs. Hudson flared high up in the fireplace and John felts a small lurch, but he didn't dare open the door to look out.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock returned, the castle had moved to the other side of the valley and back again and Mrs. Hudson appeared to be little more than an ember.

"What happened?" Sherlock glared at the low fire and then at John. "What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything," John shot Sherlock an annoyed look from his chair, where he had been trying to calm himself down. "There was a scarecrow and she moved the castle to get us away from it."

"A... a what?" Sherlock was staring at John in apparent amazement.

"A scarecrow," John said, clearly hearing how foolish he sounded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, before moving over to Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he prompted. 

The fire did not respond. He added a log, but to no effect. He began to look concerned, something John had only seen when he had been injured by the ghost.

"Mrs. Hudson," he prompted more urgently. "Are you okay? Please respond!"

"Leave me alone!" Mrs. Hudson groaned. "I'm tired!"

Sherlock looked taken aback. He shot another look at John.

"I've never seen her like this," he shot.

"Well, she moved the castle quite a long way," John was beginning to feel a bit guilty.

"So, let me get this straight," Sherlock began. "You saw a scarecrow and got so scared that you made my fire demon move the castle so far she almost went out?"

John was angry now.

"First," he said, sitting straighter in the chair, "I did not make Mrs. Hudson do anything! She did it of her own free will. Second, it wasn't just a scarecrow. It was alive and trying to get it." 

"A live scarecrow?" Sherlock asked, sounding more than a little skeptical.

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock missed it, still tending to Mrs. Hudson. John returned to studying the spell, deciding to ignore Sherlock.

Sometime later--John had lost track of how much time had passed--Mrs. Hudson had returned to a small flame and Sherlock was at the desk with the strange equipment when a knock sounded at the door. John tensed as Sherlock made his way to open it.

When the door opened, John heard Sherlock’s soft, "oh," and leaned over to see exactly what he had expected. The scarecrow was back and trying again, just as persistently, to make its way into the castle.

Sherlock examined it closely, seeming unperturbed.

"Well, that's quite a curse," he said after a moment. "But you've scared John and nearly made Mrs. Hudson go out, so you'll have to go."

John watched as Sherlock made an odd gesture and, almost immediately, the scarecrow was gone. John stared at the empty door, astounded.

Sherlock closed the door and turned to John, clearing his throat.

"Well," he said, "I suppose you were right then."

John raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose so," he said with a slight grin. 

 

* * *

  
Over the next several days, John noticed that Sherlock seemed quite distracted when he was in the house. He would alternate between rummaging amongst his newly organized files and books and playing the violin. John felt his heart leap every time Sherlock picked up the violin. But he soon found that, depending on his mood, the music he played could alternate between beauty personified in sound and headache inducing screeching. John could never predict which it would be, though he found that, to his intense displeasure, it tended to be the later anytime past midnight and before seven in the morning.

During this time, Sherlock frequently left the house, staying out for long periods of time and then returning with a frustrated expression. John had tried to ask what he was doing, but Sherlock had merely grumbled that it wasn't important in the least and returned to whatever work he was doing.

John, in the mean time, took to taking care of the more everyday aspects of living with Sherlock, which included buying food--a concept Sherlock apparently ignored completely--and attempting to get Sherlock to eat some of it. He also attempted to keep the living areas in a reasonable semblance of cleanliness--an effort undermined by Sherlock's near constant "experiments," which more often than not involved body parts.

When he was not tending to these duties, however, John continued attempting to decipher the spell. He had made pages of notes, most of which he had almost immediately discarded, and had even attempted creating a potion based on his interpretation of the ingredients. It had produced nothing but a strangely smelling muck, which John had immediately thrown out.

He was looking over his notes again, trying to ignore the small explosions coming from the kitchen, where Sherlock was working, when a knock came at the door. He pushed himself up and grabbed his cane as Mrs. Hudson informed him the knock came from the Kingsbury door.

When he opened the door, he found Lestrade standing there, looking rather apprehensive.

"Oh, hi Detective Lestrade," John said, smiling at him.

"Er... hi," Lestrade shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Yeah," John said just as another small explosion sounded from the kitchen. "I'll go get him. Come in."

John found Sherlock surrounded by strange looking vials, some of which seemed to be smoking. He sighed, thinking of the mess he would soon have to clean and hoping Sherlock didn't destroy the house before he had the chance.

"Lestrade's here," John said loudly. "He wants to talk to you."

Sherlock turned, eyes shining under his goggles. 

"A case?" he asked.

"No idea," John said.

  
Sherlock's expression turned skeptical, but he followed John back into the living room.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as soon as Sherlock entered the room.

 "No," Sherlock returned without a pause.

"But you don't even..." Lestrade began.

"You're here to get me to look for the princess again," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I already told the king I'm not interested."

"Sherlock, please," Lestrade looked rather desperate. "The king won't get off my back. We've hit nothing but dead ends and there is a war looming on the horizon if we don't figure this out soon. You're the only one left after Suliman died."

"That's not his name," Sherlock looked more annoyed than John had ever seen him, "and he isn't dead. He doesn't have the decency to die."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, please!"

"No," Sherlock turned to leave again. "Come back when you have an actual case. I don't work for the king."

With that, Sherlock retreated back into the kitchen, leaving John and Lestrade in an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, that could have gone better," John said, shooting Lestrade a sympathetic look.

"I knew it would happen this way," Lestrade said, sounding resigned. "I had to try anyway. The king is having a fit. He's threatening to invade Strangia. He's convinced they have taken her hostage. There are already skirmishes and the only way we are going to prevent a full on war is to find the princess."

"Why won't Sherlock help?" John asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine, mate," Lestrade sighed. "I've given up trying to understand that man's mind."

John huffed a laugh, thinking that was probably wise.

"Hey," Lestrade said suddenly, shooting John a rather intense look, "I don't suppose you would try to convince him?"

"Me?" John stared at Lestrade. "Why in the world would he listen to me? I'm nobody."

"I don't know, mate," Lestrade glanced over at the kitchen, from which soft bangs were now emanating. "I've got a feeling he might just listen to you."


	11. In Which the Black Door Opens

After Lestrade's visit, Sherlock spent more and more time out of the house. John didn't bother asking where he was going, knowing full well that he would get no real answer. Instead, he asked Mrs. Hudson, hoping she might be a bit more forthcoming.

"Where does Sherlock go all the time," he asked one day as he sat by the fire, working fruitlessly on the spell Sherlock had left him, yet again.

"Oh, who knows," she answered. "Who knows what goes on in that silly head of his."

"Hmmm," John said, thinking. "Does he have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend? Maybe he's visiting them?"

"I wouldn't know," Mrs. Hudson said. "I've never seen him with anybody, but he certainly has the power to be charming when he wants to be. I don't think he would every be serious about anybody though. He's quite heartless, you know."

John stared a minute at the fire, amazed. He had always heard Sherlock described as heartless and he certainly saw his lack of compassion at times, but he never imagined Mrs. Hudson would describe him that way. He felt rather strange about it. Almost defensive.

He turned back to the spell, reading over it for what seemed like the thousandth time. After almost a week and a half of fruitless effort, John was growing more and more frustrated. Sherlock had said the spell was simple, and yet he could make nothing of it. For a simple spell, it seemed rather complex.

Then it hit him. Simple! He had been looking at the spell all wrong. Sherlock had said the spell would be simple, but he had been examining it as if it were one of the complex spells Sherlock had described. If the spell were really simple, then perhaps he should have been reading it literally, rather than attempting to find hidden meaning.

He read the spell again.

Go and catch a falling star.

A falling star? Was it possible to catch a falling star? John wouldn't be surprised if it were, but how.

"Is it possible to catch a falling star," he asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh yes, deary," she said. "Though it is not easy. One must be in the right place at the right time and very quick."

"Hmmm," John thought carefully.

Where would be the right place? Somewhere open, where the sky was easily seen and the stars were clear. The moors, perhaps. But how to be quick enough?

The answer occurred to him almost before he had finished thinking about the question. Seven league boots!

He was up an rummaging in the small closet the next moment. He had noticed the boots when he had cleaned earlier. They were large and bucket like, but he recognized them immediately. Pushing aside several oddities and magical objects, he found the boots and dragged them out to the room.

"What are you doing," Mrs. Hudson almost seemed to be leaning out of the fireplace.

"I'm going to catch a falling star," John replied, lugging the boots to the door and turning the nob to Chipping Valley.

"Wait!" Mrs. Hudson said as he was stepping out. "I don't think you should."

"Oh, don't worry," John said over his shoulder. "Sherlock left the spell, so it will be fine."

He had left before Mrs. Hudson could respond, eager to finally make some kind of progress on the spell.

 

* * *

 

John had never used seven league boots before. In fact, he had never seen them in person before he met Sherlock. He found the experience incredibly unsettling--rushing through space as though he were some kind of star himself. But, to his delight, he reached the moors in no time at all and was just in time to see the stars in their full glory.

Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, he glanced around the sky, looking for any sign of a shooting star.

"Come on now," he mumbled to the sky. "Give me a shooting star. Let me be lucky, just this once."

Almost as soon as he said it, he saw a flash in the sky. Moving quickly and without thinking, he stepped forward in one boot in the direction of the star. He landed just short of the star and, pulling his foot out of the boot, began running as quickly as he could manage. In just a few steps, he was within reach of the star.

He was astounded to see that the star had a face. In fact, it looked vaguely like a very small person made of fire. He reached out to catch it, but it swerved to the side.

"No!" its voice was little more than a squeak.

"But you'll die," John moved to where the star had swerved. "I can help you."

"I should die," the star said, moving away again. "It isn't right for me to be caught! Please don't!"

The star looked terrified and John hesitated. The hesitation gave the star just enough time to swerve again and fall, just out of John's reach.

When the star hit the ground, it flickered for just a moment, looking relieved. Then it went out completely and faded into the ground. John felt his heart clench for a moment, but he felt relieved as well. The star had looked so scared.

He sighed and turned back, wondering if he had missed his chance or if he had been lucky after all.

 

* * *

 

John arrived back at the castle to find Sherlock pacing up and down by the fireplace. John could immediately tell that he was agitated, but had no idea why. Mrs. Hudson was burning rather low, which John thought was a bad sign.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock shot at him the moment he entered the room, moving over to stand in front of him.

"I was working on the spell you gave me," John stepped back, becoming concerned at the intense look Sherlock was giving him.

"What spell?" Sherlock demanded.

John raised an eyebrow, wondering why Sherlock would ask such an obvious question. But he was so worked up that John didn't question. Instead, he moved carefully around Sherlock to the fireplace and picked up the spell from amongst his notes. He had hardly touched it when Sherlock snatched it from his hands. His brow furrowed as he read.

"Where did you get this?" Sherlock asked.

John's brow furrowed. "By the fireplace, where you left it."

"This isn't the spell I left," Sherlock glanced over at Mrs. Hudson.

John tilted his head, confused.

"But... but it was where you said you would leave it," John glanced at the paper over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was staring hard at the paper.

"Where were you?" he asked again, suddenly.

"Like I said," John was getting more nervous now, "I was working on the spell."

Sherlock moved so that he was only inches from John's face. John tensed, feeling a tingle run down his spine.

"Did you try to catch a falling star?" he asked, his voice soft, but dangerous.

"I..." John's breath caught as Sherlock leaned in even closer. "Er... yes."

"Did you catch it?" Sherlock's voice was barely audible now but somehow sounded like a growl.

"No," John confessed. "It seemed scared, so I... I stopped."

"STUPID!" Sherlock nearly shouted, stepping away. "That was the most stupid thing you have ever done in your life! Thank god you didn't actually catch it!"

John had stepped back, frightened.

"Oh, deary, don't be so harsh," Mrs. Hudson said, flaring up slightly. "After all, you did it once."

"Yes," Sherlock shouted, "and I... I... That was STUPID, John!"

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John was becoming concerned. He had never seen Sherlock this agitated.

"This," he said, shaking the paper, "is not a spell at all. It is a curse, and it's meant for me."

"What?" John shook his head, trying to understand.

"Did you open the black door?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"I..." John was confused again. "yes, I did. But what does that have to do..."

"Come with me," Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and moved quickly toward the door.

John followed, grabbing his cane and coat. Sherlock turned the door to black and stepped into the nothing. Hesitating just slightly, John followed, eyes closed and heart racing.


	12. In Which a Curse is Read

John felt cool air on his arm and opened his eyes. He found himself a few steps behind Sherlock in a strange city with houses and buildings unlike any John had ever seen.

The street was paved with some sort of black rock, rather than bricks and there were strange, large machines sitting in front of many of the houses. He looked behind to find the door he had just left and saw a black door with a small knocker and letters indicating what he assumed was an address--221. 

John stared around, eyes wide, trying to interpret what he was seeing.

"John," Sherlock called, now quite far ahead of him.

John blinked, trying to collect himself. Then he followed as quickly as he could, not wanting to be left behind in the strange city. Sherlock was waving at the street as some of the large machines passed by, like carriages, but without horses and much faster. After a moment, one of the machines stopped and Sherlock opened the door, beckoning for John to enter. 

John hesitated.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said impatiently.

"I... okay," John moved into the machine hesitantly.

Inside, he found cushioned seats, almost like armchairs, and strange straps. He stared around him as Sherlock said something to the driver, who was sitting inside the strange carriage as well.

Without warning, the strange carriage took off, faster than John had ever experienced. He gasped, clutching the seat. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sherlock grin.

The carriage moved along for quite some time, during which John gradually became accustomed to the strange machine and relaxed enough to look outside the window.

"You have questions," Sherlock said.

"A few," John said, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Okay," Sherlock turned to face him in his seat.

"Where are we?" John asked.

"London," Sherlock responded.

"And where, exactly, is London?" John asked.

"Well," Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat, "there are several different dimensions that exist simultaneously. London is in one dimension. Ingary is in another."

"So, you mean we are in an entirely different world?" John asked, a bit breathlessly.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

John paused, trying to come to grips with this statement. After a moment, however, he gave up the effort. 

"Why are we here?" he asked finally.

"To get the rest of the curse," Sherlock said. "I recognized it and it comes from this world. When you opened the door, somebody must have sent it through."

"Who is trying to curse you?" John asked.

"The Witch of the Wastes, most likely," Sherlock said with a frown.

"And why would she want to curse you?" John asked.

Sherlock looked mildly uncomfortable and paused.

"She and I..." Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "We worked together once. She thought we were something more than we were."

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride, John contemplating what he had just learned. 

When the carriage stopped, John looked out to see an incredibly large red brick building built in what looked like several layers. He stared, amazed. It looked like a palace. 

After a short exchange with the driver, Sherlock jumped out of the strange carriage and John followed, still marveling at the building. They arrived at a door, over which were the words The British Library.

The inside of the building was quite as impressive as the outside to John. He was paying little attention to Sherlock as they moved inside, staring around amazed and thinking this must be some sort of royal building. Only a moment later, however, his thoughts were interrupted by a dark-haired man, who approached them with a rather shy smile.

"Hi, I'm Richard. How can I help you," he asked, eyeing Sherlock rather closely.

Sherlock pulled the paper out of his pocket.

"I'm looking for the full version of this," he said, handing the man the paper. 

John noticed that the man's hand brushed Sherlock and wondered if it were intentional.

"Oh yes," the man said. "Right this way."

He led them to a door and pushed a button. After a moment, the doors opened onto a tiny room. John hesitated, but Sherlock seemed unconcerned, so he followed inside. To his shock, the small box lurched slightly and John could feel himself moving. When the door opened again, it was on a different room and John wondered if this were some sort of portal.

Richard led them through shelves and shelves of books--more books than John had ever seen in his life--finally stopping at one and running his hands along the spines. After a moment, he pulled one down and motioned for them to follow.He led them to a small table and sat at one of the chairs, opening the book in front of him.

"Ah yes," he said, stopping on a page. "Here it is. Would you like me to read it for you?"

"Yes, go ahead," Sherlock said.

The man smiled at him, ignoring John completely. John began to feel a bit uncomfortable.

 

_"Go and catch a falling star,_

_Get with child a mandrake root,_

_Tell me where all past years are,_

_Or who cleft the devil's foot,_

_Teach me to hear mermaids singing,_

_Or to keep off envy's stinging,_

_And find_

_What wind_

_Serves to advance an honest mind._

 

_If thou be'st born to strange sights,_

_Things invisible to see,_

_Ride ten thousand days and nights,_

_Till age snow white hairs on thee,_

_Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,_

_All strange wonders that befell thee,_

_And swear,_

_No where_

_Lives a woman true, and fair._

 

_If thou find'st one, let me know,_

_Such a pilgrimage were sweet;_

_Yet do not, I would not go,_

_Though at next door we might meet;_

_Though she were true, when you met her,_

_And last, till you write your letter,_

_Yet she_

_Will be_

_False, ere I come, to two, or three."_

 

John was entirely lost. How was this a curse? But, when he looked at Sherlock, he found that he looked as though he were upset, but trying not to show it, his face a mask of perfect neutrality.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, standing.

"Can I help you with anything else?" Richard looked hopeful.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Well," Richard smiled shyly at him, "would you like to take the book with you?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock shot him a smile that looked less than sincere.

Richard smiled and handed him the book. "I'll take care of checking it out. No worries. Please do come back soon."

Sherlock nodded and turned to walk out. John followed. 

 

* * *

 

When they arrived back at the castle, Sherlock was restless and clearly frustrated. He paced up and down the room, sometimes picking up the violin, playing a few notes, and putting it back down again. John watched him, feeling Sherlock's restlessness himself, as though it were contagious. 

"What are we going to do about the curse?" John asked when Sherlock's pacing became too much for his nerves.

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbled.

"But why?" John was confused.

"There is nothing to do," Sherlock grumbled. "She's on my trail and the curse has already been placed."

"Can't we break it?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him a look but didn't answer. He continued pacing. 

"Oh, just give him time," Mrs. Hudson said softly. "He's just in a mood. He gets like that sometimes."

John hummed, but continued watching Sherlock pace. He hoped something would happen soon to take his mind off whatever was bothering him. He was rather afraid he would start tearing up the house before long.

Time seemed to stretch on forever and John was just beginning to wonder if he could distract Sherlock with more lessons on spell work when a knock sounded at the door.


	13. In Which Sherlock and John Investigate Vampires

The man at the door was young, with blond hair cut around his ears and freckles over his nose. John thought he couldn't have been older than eighteen. He was holding a hat in his hands, twisting it nervously. 

"Sorcerer Holmes?" he asked when John opened the door.

"Er... no," John said, "but you're in the right place. Can I help you?"

"I hope so," the young man said. "My uncle's been killed and nobody can figure out who did it."

"Oh," John said, brightening, but trying not to look delighted. "Come in."

"Sherlock," he called, interrupting the man's pacing. "We've got a case."

Sherlock did nothing to hide his delight as he moved over to his chair while John settled the client into another chair.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock said as soon as the young man was seated. "And don't be boring."

"Er... right," the young man continued twisting his hat in his hands. "Well, I'm Bryan and I'm here about my uncle. He was murdered and nobody seems to be doing anything about it. We weren't terribly close, but I just can't let it go. He didn't deserve that and he does deserve to have justice now."

"What happened?" John asked, prompting Bryan to get to the point before Sherlock became rude.

"He was killed by a vampire," Bryan said. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"There haven't been vampires in Ingary since the war of Sarcarite, over 500 years ago," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's what the detectives are saying," Bryan looked annoyed now. "But he was killed by a vampire. I'm sure of it."

"And what makes you so sure," John asked, eyeing Sherlock, who looked ready to kick the boy out.

"He was found in his house completely drained of blood with two puncture marks on his neck," Bryan said. "What else could do that?"

Sherlock sighed, but Bryan continued before he could move on.

"And he isn't the only one either," Bryan said quickly. "There have been at least three others who have died the same way and nobody had figure out who killed them either."

Sherlock was looking slightly more interested now.

"Is there anything else?" John prompted.

"Well," Bryan hesitated, "I... I think I may have seen the vampire."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"I saw my uncle with a woman just a couple of weeks before he was killed," Bryan said. "She was red headed and thin and tall. I only saw them together at night."

"And?" Sherlock asked, looking closely at him.

"And," Bryan continued slowly,"well, I've never seen him with a woman before, but they looked really close. Like, romantically close."

"What's so odd about that?" John asked, confused.

"Well..." Bryan said slowly, "my uncle was gay."

"Oh," Sherlock said, his face lightening. "Interesting. We'll take the case."

"You will?" Bryan looked delighted. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"Yes," Sherlock said promptly. "Please write the details here--your uncle's name, his address, anywhere you saw him with the woman."  

Sherlock handed him a small notebook and he began writing quickly.

 

* * *

 

The man, whose name was Cedric, lived in a large house on the edge of Porthaven. When they arrived, they found the house closed off by the detectives, but Sherlock ignored the warnings and moved inside, John close after him.

"Are we really investigating a vampire?" John asked as they moved into the large, luxurious living area.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, looking carefully around. "Not enough data yet."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering how in the world they would catch the murderer if she were a vampire.

John watched as Sherlock made his way through the house, carefully inspecting certain objects or the floors or walls in what seemed to John an completely arbitrary manner. 

As he moved around, he muttered things, such as "Isolated -- probably chosen for his isolation," or "no sign of struggle."

After a long moment, he moved to one side of the room, where a chalk outline adorned the floor. 

"Here," Sherlock beckoned to John, who moved over and glanced at the floor.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked.

John tensed, feeling as though he were being tested and certainly about to fail. He looked closely at the floor inside the circle of chalk, but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

"Er..." he felt a bit foolish, "I don't see anything."

"Precisely," Sherlock said, much to John's confusion. "No blood. If a man were drained of blood here, you would expect at least a few drops of blood on the carpet, but there is nothing."

"What does that mean?" John asked. 

"Either we are dealing with a very careful vampire," Sherlock said, "or a very clever serial killer."

 

* * *

 

Before long they were back in a carriage, heading away from the crime scene. Sherlock had said he wanted to have Molly examine the body, so they needed to meet the detective in charge of the case. 

They arrived at the Porthaven Royal Detective agency, where Sherlock asked about the case and was lead to an office near the back of the building.

The detective stood as they entered. 

"Detective Dimmock," he said, extending his hand to both of them. "How can I help you."

"I'm Sherlock and this is my friend John. We are investigating the vampire case," Sherlock said without preamble. "We would like to have the body of the last victim--Cedric--examined by our pathologist."

"You... What?" Detective Dimmock was staring in them in open astonishment.

"I believe I was clear," Sherlock said simply.

"No," Detective Dimmock said sternly. "I am not about to allow two amateur detectives to interfere with my case."

"I am not an amateur detective," Sherlock said, his tone dangerous. "I am a consulting detective. Talk to Detective Lestrade in Kingsbury if you would like confirmation."

"I don't give a shit about Detective Lestrade," Detective Dimmock was becoming more agitated. "I am not letting you anywhere near this case."

"We would just like to examine the body," John said, trying to diffuse the situation. "What can it hurt to have another set of eyes on the case."

"It can hurt quite a bit," Detective Dimmock growled. "Anyway, the man died two days ago. Our examiner has already performed the autopsy and the man is waiting to be buried. There is no way to see him now."

Sherlock glared at the man, but John put a hand on his arm and steered him out.

Once they were safely outside the building, John turned to Sherlock, eyebrow raised.

"Well, that could have gone better," he said. "What now?"

"Now we use my own resources," Sherlock said, "to see if we can catch a vampire."


	14. In Which Sherlock and John Hunt a Vampire

Sherlock stopped the carriage in the middle of the city and got out, telling John to wait for him. John watched as Sherlock moved to a clearly homeless individual and leaned against the wall next to her. They spoke for a moment, then Sherlock handed her some money and moved back to the carriage.

When he arrived back into the carriage, he gave the driver instructions and turned to John.

"We need to question anybody who knew the previous victims," he said.

"No, wait," John glanced back out the window at the woman he had spoken with, "what was all that?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, following his gaze. "Homeless network. Much faster than the detectives and far easier to bribe. We should have a lead on our vampire soon."

John just stared.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued, "we'll need to question anybody close to the other victims."

"But, how will we know who to question?" John asked. "Without Detective Dimmock's help, all we have is the latest victim's information."

Sherlock smiled and pulled a file out of his coat, handing it to John, who opened it to find the information about each of the vampire murders.

"How did you manage this?" John asked, staring down at the file.

"I simply pocketed it when he was distracted," Sherlock said with a grin. 

John grinned back, despite himself, and glanced back down at the file, reading quickly though the information provided.

"It doesn't look that there are many people to talk to," he said. "Two of them don't have any family at all and the other only has family on the other side of the world."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "They were all isolated, just like our last victim. I expect they were chosen for that reason. Fewer people to notice their absence or to demand justice for their deaths. Our killer miscalculated on the last victim. Didn't expect the nephew to be interested in anything other than inheritance."

"So, who are we going to talk to then?" John asked.

"Another miscalculation," Sherlock said, grinning. "One of the victims had a maid."

* * *

The meeting with the maid produced much the same results as the meeting with Bryan. She had noticed her employer with a red headed, thin women several nights before his death, though she had never seen him with anybody previously. She described him as something of a hermit and was surprised to find he was dating. And, just like the previous crime scene, she noted that there was no blood on the floor where the victim was found.

They returned to the castle just as night was falling and found the woman Sherlock had spoken with earlier idling near the door. She asked, "spare change?" and Sherlock responded, "Don't mind if I do," at which point she handed him a folded piece of paper.

John watched the exchange, but did not interfere, afraid of scaring the woman off like an alley cat. Once it was over, Sherlock simply turned and headed inside. John glanced at the woman before following, but she had already begun to wander away.

"We've got a lead on our vampire," Sherlock said as soon as John moved into the room.

Sherlock was grinning rather manically at the paper in his hand. 

"Really?" John paused in the doorway. "So, there actually is a vampire?"

"It appears there may be," Sherlock said. "Be ready in ten minutes. I'm going to gather out supplies."

And with that, Sherlock darted off up the stairs, leaving John to wonder how he was supposed to prepare himself for a meeting with a vampire.

* * *

When they arrived at a block of abandoned buildings near the docks, night had properly fallen and it was oppressively dark, there being no working street lamps in the area. John followed Sherlock closely, not keen on getting lost in an area potentially populated by vampires.

Sherlock moved softly, making as little noise as possible and John followed his lead, trying not to make noise with his cane. They arrived at a small, nondescript building Just off an abandoned dock. He moved inside, John close on his heels, feeling the tension rise in the air.

The inside of the building was as nondescript as the outside. To John, it looked like nothing more than an almost empty room, with nothing more than a few scraps of carpet and some boxes. Sherlock, however, appeared to see something different.

He moved directly to one corner of the room and lifted a scrap of carpet. 

"Over here," he whispered to John, who was still standing in the doorway, watching out for any stray vampires that may wander in.

He moved over to Sherlock and glanced down to find a hole in the floor, leading directly down into blackness. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"We're going down there?" he asked.

"Where else?" Sherlock reached a hand into the hole and tugged out a rope ladder, which had apparently been dangling just to the side of the hole.

John eyed it warily, clutching his cane tighter, but Sherlock had already begun making his way down. Sighing, John waited until he was several meters below and then tucked the cane into his trouser loop and carefully placed his first leg on the rope.

He reached the bottom long after Sherlock, arms sore from keeping himself from falling every time his leg gave out. Sherlock, much to his relief, was waiting for him at the bottom, though John could only just see his outline. John blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After what seemed a long moment, he could just see the outline of a hall or a tunnel, but could make out no detail.

"Follow me," Sherlock said softly. 

"How," John hissed. "I can barely see you."

John felt a hand clasp his and, once again, tingles run down his back. He tried not to flinch. Sherlock pulled at their clasped hands and John moved forward. 

They seemed to walk for an eternity and John wondered how far the tunnels when. They had climbed a good way down and had now made their way down several tunnels, turning here and there and, sometimes, passing what appeared to be chambers. He was beginning to think the tunnels must run under the entire city when they finally stopped, Sherlock putting out his other arm to stop John, who still held his other hand. 

"I think this is it," Sherlock whispered. 

"How do you know," John asked, peering around him to see another chamber like the many they had passed before. 

"I can feel it," Sherlock whispered, "I'm using a location spell. It isn't precise, but..."

There was a crash and Sherlock and John flew backward into the opposite wall, hitting hard.

Grunting, John pushed himself up to find Sherlock was no longer beside him. He pushed himself to his feet and ran forward, but stopped short when flashes of multi colored light began exploding just in front of him. In the flashes, John could see Sherlock and a tall, red headed woman circling. 

_Magic_ , he thought, amazed.

He watched the light show for a few moments, but could see neither the woman nor Sherlock making any actual progress, so he moved his way behind the woman. Then, when a flash went off, John took his cane and hit her square in the head. 

The woman stumbled forward a step, then fell to the ground. 

Sherlock paused, his hands raised in a complicated gesture, and looked down at the now unconscious woman.

"That works," he said, grinning at John.


	15. In Which Sherlock and John Interview a Vampire

The red haired woman sat tied to a pillar with what Sherlock had called unbreakable chains. John hoped he was right because she looked pissed, bearing her sharp fangs as them and growling menacingly. 

"How long have you been here?" Sherlock asked for the fourth time. "Why did you come back?"

The woman growled, but continued refusing to answer. Sherlock growled back in frustration and began pacing room. 

John, who had been sitting near the far wall, tending the candle, stood and moved closer to the woman, sitting on the floor across from her.

"You..." he began, "You're a vampire, then?"

She bared her teeth again.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She faltered in her growl, glancing behind John to Sherlock, who was still  pacing the room.

"Don't mind him," John said, shooting her a smile. "He's just like that. Now, what was your name?"

She stared at him a long, silent moment and John thought he might as well give up. Then, she blinked and stopped baring her teeth.

"Amelia," she said. 

John was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. He wasn't entirely certain what he expected a vampire to sound like, but it wasn't like a regular woman.

"Amelia," he repeated, smiling again. "I'm John and that is Sherlock."

She glared at Sherlock.

"He has that effect on people," John said.

Amelia grinned, apparently despite herself, as she frowned again quickly.

"Look, sorry for all this," John said, gesturing to the chains containing her, "but you have been killing people. It isn't like we could just let you continue to let you do it."

She grunted. "I haven't killed anyone in over five hundred years."

John raised an eyebrow at here. "The bodies the detectives have found would beg to differ."

"It wasn't me," Amelia said, though she didn't seem to believe she would convince them.

"How long have you been back?" John asked. "Why did you come here?"

"I never left," Amelia said.

"Impossible," Sherlock had moved back toward them and was now crouching beside John. 

Amelia shot him a glare.

"All the vampires have been gone for hundreds of years," he said. "There is no way one could have remained without being noticed for so long."

"Of course not," she said, still glaring at Sherlock. "Haven't you heard reports of vampire sightings over the years. Just a few -- nothing to raise suspicion. It's easy to hide when you're the only one. Nobody believes the few who do see you."

"But why?" John asked before Sherlock could say anything. "Why would you stay when all the others like you had left? Why would you want to be alone?"

Amelia paused, looking down at her lap and taking a deep breath.

"Because I wasn't alone," she said softly.

"You mean?" John could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"Yes," she said, still speaking softly. "I had a lover -- a partner. Our love was forbidden and we were to be killed, but then I was turned. I saved her life, but we had to live in secrecy. We were isolated from both communities -- human and vampire."

"What happened?" John asked, leaning closer to her.

"We lived together," Amelia smiled at her lap. "We spent our time building this place, so that we could have access to the city when we needed it. And then, eventually, she died. Humans do that.

"And you stayed?" John asked. 

"Yes," Amelia looked up at him, her eyes bright. "This is my home. It's where we lived together. I could never leave that."

John glanced at Sherlock, who had folded his hands in front of his chin and was staring into space. 

"Then why bring attention to yourself now?" John asked. "If you've managed not to be caught so far, you must have had a better way of getting blood than murdering people in their own homes."

"I don't murder anybody," Amelia said crossly. "I feed on animals and blood from clinics -- never people."

"So why change now?" John asked.

"Like I said," Amelia was clearly becoming annoyed, "I haven't. I'm being framed."

"Framed?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Amelia grumbled. "Somebody has found out about me and is trying to blame these murders on me."

"But," John blinked, "who? And how?"

"I've no idea," Amelia growled. "But I certainly would like to find out."

"So," John said slowly, "you'll help us then?"

Amelia stared at him, eyes wide. 

"I..." she hesitated. "Yes. I will. But only if I can remain undiscovered. I refuse to be driven out of this country."

* * *

"Do you believe her?" John and Sherlock were back in a carriage, making their way to the last crime scene. 

Amelia had agreed to meet them there, using her underground tunnels to come out near the last crime scene. 

"No," Sherlock said, "but I don't disbelieve her either. I need more data."

"Hmm," John and Sherlock had arrived at the house now and were waiting outside the front door. 

John thought back to Amelia's expression. He knew Sherlock was right -- they were talking about a vampire, after all. It would be foolish to take her at her word. And yet, every time he saw her expression when she talked about her lover, he couldn't help but believe her.

"What are we doing back here?" John asked. "Do you really think she'll be able to see something you missed?"

Sherlock shot him a look. "I'm collecting data."

"John? Sherlock?" they turned to toward a quiet voice in the darkness where the street lamps didn't illuminate the house.

"Amelia?" John asked, peering into the shadow.

"Can we get inside?" the outline that was apparently Amelia shifted in the shadows.

"Right," John said, turning and stepping inside the open door, Sherlock close behind.

John was walking toward the side of the room where the body was found when he realized Sherlock was not beside him. He turned back to find Sherlock standing by the door, looking out. Amelia was on the other side, looking annoyed.

"Let me in," Amelia grumbled.

"Why would I need to let you in?" Sherlock asked.

"You know why," she glanced nervously around the street. "Hurry up and let me inside before somebody spots me."

"Why can't she come in?" John asked, moving back to the door.

Sherlock glanced at him, then back at Amelia, who was shifting her weight and still glancing nervously around.

"She hasn't been invited," Sherlock said with a grin.

"You promised I could remain undercover," she growled. "The longer I stay out here, the more likely it is I'll be spotted."

"Well, come in then," John said.

Amelia looked intensely relieved and stepped quickly inside. 

"Thank you!" she huffed. 

"Alright," Sherlock said, turning toward John, "we are looking for anybody who could have framed Amelia. Somebody who could have found her after hundreds of years in hiding."

"Wait," John blinked at him as Amelia moved around the room, examining it closely. "So you believe her now?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, smiling at him. "How could she have killed Cedric if she couldn't even enter his house."

"Oh," John turned to look at her. "Right."

Amelia was squatting near the place in which the body had been discovered. 

"This wasn't a vampire," she said, standing and turning to face them.

"How do you know?" John asked. "It may not have been you, but another vampire could have hidden here if you could."

"Highly unlikely," Amelia said. "But I know this wasn't a vampire because we can sense our own kind. I sense nothing here."

"Well then," Sherlock said, "I suppose we'll have to begin by looking for anyone or anything that could have found out about you."


	16. In Which the "Vampire" Strikes Again

John and Sherlock arrived back at Detective Dimmock's desk just as the building opened and before Dimmock arrived. When he did arrive, holding a coffee cup and looking both tired and annoyed, he motioned them into the office with a sigh and took a long drink from the cup.

"What is it now?" he asked, setting the cup down.

"Your murderer is not a vampire," Sherlock said.

"And how would you know that?" Dimmock eyed Sherlock suspiciously. 

"I've got some inside information," Sherlock said.

Dimmock simply looked at him for a long moment.

"And you expect me to just take your word, do you?" he said finally.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "Unless you let me examine the body. Then I can give you proof."

"I already said no," Dimmock rolled his eyes.

"And how is your investigation going," Sherlock asked. "Any closer to finding the murderer?"

Dimmock glared at him.

"What can it hurt to just let us have a look?" John asked. "It isn't like we're going to disturb evidence. You said yourself that your examiners have already taken their look."

"It isn't possible," Dimmock said.

"You're being stubborn and it is going to get more people killed," John shot back.

"I mean," Dimmock said, shooting John a glare now, "that it literally is not possible. The body has already been creamated. There is nothing to examine."

"Idiot," Sherlock barked.

"Excuse me?" Dimmock narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"If you had just let us examine the body when we asked..." Sherlock began.

"And why in the world would I have done that?" Dimmock shot back. "I don't know anything about you. You come waltzing in here acting as though you have a right to official evidence..."

"I am a consulting wizard," Sherlock shot back.

"That's not even a thing," Dimmock growled.

"Boys," John said warningly as the two glared at one another.

A young man had come to the door and was standing, waiting politely for Dimmock's attention. John tilted his head at him.

"Er...," the young man said. "Sir. There's been another one."

Sherlock and Dimmock looked at one another for a moment. Then Dimmock sighed.

"Fine," he said. "Come on."

* * *

The crime scene was almost exactly like the previous one -- a large house, indications of isolation, absolutely no blood found around (or in) the body. Sherlock took only a cursory look before he declared it was exactly as he expected. He then turned his attention to the body, instructing Dimmock to send it to Molly. Dimmock put up only a cursory resistance before agreeing.

They arrived at Molly's lab just as she was preparing the body. Sherlock immediately moved to it and pulled out his magnifying glass, examining every inch of the man's body carefully. Molly, ignoring him as though she were quite used to this, began her exam as well. John waited near the edge of the room, feeling rather useless.

"This isn't a vampire," Molly said after a moment examining the victim's neck.

"No," Sherlock murmured, "it's not."

"There are puncture wounds in the neck, but the victim wasn't awake when he was exsanguinated," she said. "If it were a vampire, there would have been signs of a struggle, but the punctures are perfect."

"Exactly," Sherlock was looking closely at the man's hair.

"John," he said, not looking up. "Over here."

John, wondering what good he could do, moved over and looked where Sherlock was pointing. He saw tiny puncture marks, almost hidden at the edge of the man's hair.

"What do those look like?" Sherlock asked. 

"They look like needle punctures," John said, squinting at them.

"Can you tell the gauge?" Sherlock asked.

John squinted again. "Er... Maybe around 14 gauge?"

"That's what I though," Sherlock said softly, moving the man's hair. "There are more, hidden in the hair. Several dozen of them."

"So," John stared at the hair, "he was drugged?"

"The tox screen will tell us for sure," Sherlock said, "but yes, I think so. I believe he must have been paralyzed with a toxin before his blood was drained."

"That makes sense," Molly said. "I won't be able to get a tox screen from the blood, obviously. But I can try the tissue around the injection sites. I may be able to find something there."

"Yes, good," Sherlock had moved to examining the man's clothing, which Molly had laid out next to him, upon request from Sherlock.

He pulled a vial from his pocket and deposited something John could not see, then moved quickly over to the equipment set up on a large table on the other side of the room. John followed, curious, but could not tell what Sherlock was doing. He peered into the small telescope like machine for several long moments, sometimes mumbling to himself. John stood behind him, waiting for Sherlock to begin explaining and thinking he may be waiting for quite a long time.

He was not wrong. Molly continued her examination, sometimes chatting with John, sometimes remaining quiet and focused. John stood leaning against the wall and his cane, trying not to yawn or nod off. 

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head.

"Aha!" he said. 

"What is it?" John pushed himself off the wall, trying to get his eyes to focus.

"Seawater and seaweed," Sherlock said, turning to face him.

"Well, that doesn't narrow it down much," John said. "This is a port town, after all."

"That's not all," Sherlock grinned. "There are traces of tallow, pitch, rosin, and brimstone."

John raised an eyebrow.

"That's graving," Sherlock said. "Used on ships. But not just any ships. Old ships with wooden sheathing rather than the more common copper sheathing."

"Does that help us?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, grinning wider. "There is only one ship currently docked in this town with that kind of sheathing and thus, only one with that type of graving. We know where our victim was killed."


	17. In Which John Visits the Sea (Port)

John and Sherlock had returned to the castle after Sherlock had announced his discovery. John had expected them to go straight to the docks, but when they arrived home instead, he had assumed Sherlock simply needed to gather supplies before they left for the actual crime scene. He had been surprised, therefore, when Sherlock had simply walked straight to his chair and sat, hands folded in front of his chin.

After a few long minutes of silence, John had tried to ask what the plan was and when they were going to leave, but Sherlock had simply ignored him, clearly deep in thought. Eventually, John had given up the effort and settled in for a long wait. He had not, however, expected the wait to last almost three days.

Sherlock had spent those three days alternating between sitting, statue like, in his chair, shuffling through his books and files, and paying his violin. John had primarily spent his time watching Sherlock, particularly when he played the violin. But he had also taken the opportunity to read any material he could find on curses and contracts. It may not have been the most opportune time to work on breaking Sherlock's contact with Mrs. Hudson -- being in the middle of a case and all -- but he had gotten no closer to finding a solution and, at that moment, seemed to have little esle of use to do.

Finally, one day as John was just thinking of turning in early for the night, Sherlock had stood quite suddenly from his chair.

"It's time, John," he said, all manic energy.

"Oh, you're talking now, are you?" John grumbled. "Time for what, exactly?"

"Time to catch a murderer," Sherlock, ignoring John's jab, grabbed his coat, scarf, and a bag he had apparently already packed and headed toward the door.

John sighed and stood, gathering his own coat and his cane, and followed Sherlock out to the street. By the time he caught up with him, he had already flagged down a coach and was waiting inside. John climbed in and the coach took off at once.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they bounced along the road. 

"The crime scene," Sherlock replied as though this were the most obvious fact in the world.

"But, why now?" John pressed.

"Because the murderer will be there tonight," Sherlock replied.

"How do you know?" John glanced out the window to see the coach approaching the docks.

"Our killer murders her victims almost exactly every three days," Sherlock said. "If I am correct -- and I always am -- we will find the murderer at the ship tonight with her next victim."

"That seems rather dangerous," John said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Oh, of course," Sherlock shot a grin at John, who grinned back at him.

* * *

The ship looked as though it had been abandoned for decades. It was docked in a disused part of the docks and, to John, looked as though it might fall apart at the slightest wind. Illuminated only be the moon, it had an eerie luminescence and John couldn't help but think of the ghost they had encountered and wonder if this were haunted as well.

"What's the plan?" John asked as they made their way carefully onto the decrepit boat.

"We're going to set up a trap for our murderer," Sherlock said, making his way through the deck and down a set of creaky stairs.

"What kind of trap?" John asked.

"One that will only work if I'm correct about who the murderer is," Sherlock said, moving through a small doorway into a large room.

John followed and gasped slightly as he spotted the room. It was covered with blood -- large dark stains covering the floor and buckets filled with coagulated blood lining the walls. John felt ill.

"What in the world is going on?" John asked, unable to look away.

"This is where the victims are murdered," Sherlock moved into the room, reaching into the bag he had brought and pulling out what looked like a pile of ropes in knots. 

"I got that," John said, watching Sherlock begin to untangle what he now recognized as a net. "I meant, why did the murderer do this in the first place? A vampire would make sense, but if this isn't a vampire, then why drain people of blood and keep it in buckets?"

"We're about to find out," Sherlock had rigged the net so that it was hanging on the ceiling of the roof, attached by a fishing line release.

He moved over to a small pile of wood near the corner of the room and crouched down behind it. John followed, still glancing at the grotesque scene around him.

When he reached the pile, he found Sherlock tugging a large mirror out of the bag. John stared.

"What is that for?" he asked.

"Defense," Sherlock said, leaning the mirror against the wood and checking the trip wire, which he had tied to a plank of wood. "When I say now, pull this wire."

"Er, okay," John said, glancing at the wire.

A noise on the deck above them caught both of their attention and the fell silent.

"Be ready," Sherlock said softly.

John nodded curtly and crouched down lower behind the wood, listening carefully to the soft footsteps above them.

The footsteps stopped and there was a moment of silence. John and Sherlock both barely breathed as they listened. Then, suddenly, there were several loud bangs, as though somebody were fighting, followed by a thud.

Another moment of silence followed, then more footsteps, this time accompanied by a dragging sound. After a moment they heard soft, rhythmic thuds and John winced as he imagined a body being dragged down the stairs. Then the footsteps grew louder and Sherlock and John both tensed, ready for action.

John's breath caught as he heard the footsteps clearly enter the room. Beside him, Sherlock moved slightly, and John looked over to find him holding the mirror. Sherlock glanced at him, his expression clearly asking if he were ready. John nodded and Sherlock stood, keeping the mirror just below the wood pile in his hands.

"Hey," Sherlock said.

John peaked out from behind the wood and saw a tall, thin, red haired woman holding an apparently unconscious or dead man by his armpits. She turned so suddenly that John flinched. Dropping the man with a thud, she moved toward Sherlock, who simply stood still, waiting.

John tensed as she came closer and closer. Then, just as she had reached the area covered by the net, Sherlock pulled out the mirror. The woman hissed, covering her face with her arms and Sherlock shouted, "now!"

John pulled the wire and the net fell, covering the woman, who immediately began struggling and growling. Sherlock dropped the mirror carefully and moved over to the net, mumbling something under his breath. John followed, uncertain exactly what had just happened.

The woman glared up at them from beneath the ropes. John moved to the man, who was lying still on the ground near the door. He checked for a pulse and was relieved to find the man was still alive.

"What just happened?" John asked, moving back to stand next to Sherlock.

"We just caught a mermaid," Sherlock said, grinning down at the woman.

"A... a what?" John stared at the woman, who looked like a perfectly normal human, aside from the growls and snarls.

"Who did you make a deal with?" Sherlock asked the woman.

She glared and snarled, but did not respond.

"A deal?" John asked. 

"Yes," Sherlock said, glancing at him. "Somebody gave her legs. I'm guessing in exchange for blood. If you drink the blood of a human every seventy two hours, you can remain human, correct?"

The woman glared.

"What was that with the mirror?" John glanced back at the mirror, lying on the ground now.

Sherlock smiled and brought the mirror over.

"Interesting fact about mermaids," Sherlock said. "They are quite vain and a bit magical, so they project a beautiful appearance. But mirrors reveal their true form."

He held the mirror up to the woman, who hissed. John looked and saw a grotesque creature with green, slimy skin cut through with gills and scales. He grimaced, feeling slightly ill again.

Suddenly, the creature let out a blood curdling scream. Sherlock and John both covered their ears, wincing in pain. Just as suddenly the scream stopped and the woman returned to glaring at them, though John thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward.

As the silence settled around them, John and Sherlock looked at one another. Sherlock looked both startled and worried, which made John's heart sink.

All of the sudden, the ship lurched to one side, causing both John and Sherlock to stumble and fall.

"What the..." John pushed himself up on his elbow, just as the ship lurched again to the other side.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked over at the human mermaid, who was now smiling menacingly at them.

"Run!" he said, pushing himself up and grabbing John's arm, dragging him to his feet.

John stumbled as he stood and followed Sherlock toward the stairs.

"Wait!" he said just as Sherlock reached the first step. "The man. We can't leave him."

The ship lurched again and John stumbled into the wall. Sherlock looked back, his eyes wide.

"There's no time," he said.

"I'm not leaving him here to drown," John insisted.

Sherlock hesitated, but then growled in frustration and ran back to John, who tucked his cane into his trousers and moved to the unconscious man. 

They both tugged the man together up the stairs as the ship lurched more and more violently. When they reached the deck, they could see that the ship had already begun taking on water. One end was clearly lower than the other and the gangway had almost fallen from the land.

"Hurry," Sherlock huffed, tugging the man backward toward the land.

Sherlock had just tugged the man's head and shoulders with him onto the dock when the ship lurched again and the gangway disconnected from the ship. Sherlock only just prevented the man from falling into the sea, but John tumbled down with the gangway.

"John!" Sherlock tugged the man up as quickly as he could, leaving him lying near the edge of the dock, and dived in after John.


	18. Which is Far Too Full of Seawater

When John hit the water, his breath was knocked out by the freezing water. He beat against it, trying to find his way to the surface again.

Just as he broke the surface, taking a deep, gasping breath, he felt something take hold of his foot and pull him down. He kicked out, but whatever had hold of him was strong. He was pulled back underwater and felt panic rising in his chest as he felt something sting his leg and immediately felt his energy begin to drain out of his limbs.

He looked down to see several of the grotesque creatures he had seen on the ship in that mirror. It took all his effort to prevent himself from releasing a gasp. He struggled more fiercely, but the creatures simply grabbed his other leg and his arms, pinning him down as they swam lower and lower.

His lungs were burning and he was beginning to see black on the edges of his vision. He couldn't believe he was going to be killed by murderous mermaids, but he was glad, at least, that Sherlock had made it safely to land.

Just as his vision began to darken, he saw a flash of light. He thought perhaps he was seeing things, but then there was another flash and he realized the mermaids had let go of him. He tried to swim, but found he lacked strength even to kick out.

He felt a hand on his arm and tried weakly to tug it away, but it remained tightly grasped. Then there was a hand on his other arm and a blurry figure in front of him.

He felt his consciousness slipping from him -- his lungs no longer hurt and he was beginning to feel peaceful -- when he felt something soft against his mouth, prying it open. Then, suddenly, he felt air rush into his lungs.

His eyes shot open to find a blurry face pressed against him. When it moved back, he saw Sherlock, staring at him wide eyed. John realized he had just breathed into him and began to panic all over again. They needed to get to the surface quickly or they would both pass out and drown now.

He was still too weak to properly swim, so Sherlock grabbed him around the chest from behind and began kicking hard toward the dim light of the surface. Glancing below, John could see the mermaids recovering from whatever Sherlock had done to them and starting to swim after them.

Sherlock shot off a few more blasts below them, taking out one or two of the creatures as he continued to pull John toward the surface. The others were quickly catching up to them when they finally broke the surface of the water.

John and Sherlock both gasped for air. Sherlock, arm still wound tightly around John's chest, sent several more blasts down into the water before pulling John toward the ladder to the dock. When they got there, he had to all but pull John up the ladder because John was still having trouble even moving his own legs.

The finally reached the dock and collapsed, both panting for air and shivering.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, rolling over to examine John. "Are you okay? John!"

"I'm okay," John panted, opening his eyes and looking up at Sherlock, but otherwise not moving. "But I can barely move. What happened?"

Sherlock let out a breath he had apparently been holding, looking relieved.

"Pterois toxin," Sherlock said, collapsing back on his elbow. "The toxin from a lionfish. IT is a paralytic and the stings on the fish are roughly the size of a fourteen gauge needle. It's what the mermaids were using to paralyze their victims."

John groaned. "Just what I need -- even less function in my leg."

"It won't last," Sherlock said. "It will be out of your system completely in a day or so."

"Why wasn't I completely out, like that man?" John asked.

"They were only able to sting you a few times," Sherlock said.

"What about the murderer?" John asked, glancing over at the ship, which was now almost entirely submerged.

"She'll be back with the others by now," Sherlock said. "She didn't get her blood, so she'll be turning back into a full mermaid anytime now. I doubt we'll have a problem with her though. Whoever made that deal with her certainly won't make it a second time."

"What deal?" John asked, trying to blink away the fog in his head.

"There are very old legends," Sherlock said, "that mermaids could be turned human by sorcerers if they were either able to find true love in seventy two hours or drink the blood of their lover."

"That's grotesque," John said.

"Hmmm," Sherlock replied.

"Wait," John said after a moment's silence. "You knew it was a mermaid. You set that trap up specifically for a mermaid. How did you know?"

Sherlock grinned at him. "This case had the smell of old sea written all over it. Whatever was framing Amelia had to be just as old as she was to know about her presence. It was around before the vampires left. Mermaids are old -- ancient. The legend fit too perfectly for it to be anything else."

"But who made the deal with it?" John asked, trying to push himself up and failing.

"I don't know," Sherlock said slowly, "but I have a suspicion."

"What suspicion?" John asked.

"Do you remember the curse you tried to solve," Sherlock's face had gone dark.

"I... yes, of course," John said, slowly as the pieces began to connect in his head.

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,   
Or to keep off envy's stinging

"Oh," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock looked out at the sea. "The Witch is coming."


	19. In Which Sherlock is Bored

Detective Dimmock had been less than pleased with the outcome of their case and seemed not to believe their explanation in the least. John had been quite annoyed, but Sherlock seemed not to care in the least. 

When they returned home, however, Sherlock had been quite restless, pacing the small room and refusing to speak to John. John, who had, by now, grown used to Sherlock's mood, had simply settled in by the fire and began chatting with Mrs. Hudson while he continued to research curses and contracts, to no real effect. 

As the days passed with no new cases, however, Sherlock became more and more restless. John could hardly get a word out of him and he did nothing but tend to his experiments and sulk. 

Several times during these long days, Lestrade called at the door, begging Sherlock to help find the lost princess. Sherlock often refused to even acknowledge his presence and, when he did, was rude and short with him. John, however, came to enjoy Lestrade's company and, eventually, began to consider him a friend. The even went for drinks one night when Sherlock was particularly petulant and John needed an escape. 

After what seemed an eternity of Sherlock's relentless restless energy and a lack of anything to siphon it off on, John returned home from the market one day to find Sherlock slumped in his chair surrounded by ominous shadows. Mrs. Hudson was flickering in distress beside him.

"Oh, thank goodness you're home," she said as soon as John walked in the door.

John stared around at the ominous moving shadows, setting his bags down by the door. 

"What's going on?" John asked nervously.

"He's having a fit," Mrs. Hudson huffed.

"Sherlock?" John moved to him, carefully avoiding the undulating shadows. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock mumbled something that John could not hear, not even bothering to raise his head.

"What was that?" John asked, leaning in.

"Bored!" Sherlock's head popped up, making John startle back. "Bored! I'm bored!"

John rolled his eyes. "Why don't you work on one of the ten thousand experiments you've got cluttering up our kitchen?" 

"Ugh," Sherlock moaned. "Boring! I need a case!"

"I'm sure one will turn up soon," John said, settling into his own chair.

"I need one now!" Sherlock moaned.

John rolled his eyes again.

Sherlock moaned again and John glanced over and found, much to his shock, that he had begun emitting some sort of green slime.

"What the...?" John jumped to his feet.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson moaned.

"What's going on?" John didn't take his eyes off Sherlock, who appeared completely oblivious to the slime oozing from all over his body.

"He does this when he's upset," Mrs. Hudson replied, flickering back as the slime made its way into the fireplace.

"Sherlock!" John snapped. "Stop! Stop this!"

Sherlock did not reply. 

"Sherlock," John was getting quite annoyed now, "you are being childish."

"What would you know?" Sherlock groaned. 

"Nothing at all," John said. "I'm just your friend is all."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock snapped.

John felt his chest tighten and the blood rise to his face. 

"Wonder why," he said softly.

John stood and was just about to storm out when Mrs. Hudson spoke.

"Please deary," she said, trying to back away from the growing slime puddle, "help him."

John sighed.

"Fine," he snapped and moved to Sherlock, putting his good arm around his chest and pulling him up. "Come on."

John half dragged Sherlock to the bathroom and deposited him in the bathtub. 

"You can slime all you want in there," he grumbled. "Clean yourself up when you're done being a drama queen."

With that, John stormed back out to the living room, grabbing a clean shirt on the way, and put on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding worried.

"Out," John snapped, grabbing his cane and limping out the front door, feeling every ache in his worn body tenfold.

* * *

John walked back into the clinic he had left, it seemed, a lifetime ago for the first time since the Witch had cursed him. He immediately felt claustrophobic and weak, wondering why he had wondered back here, of all places. He realized then that he simply had nowhere else to go.

He moved to the back room, where he used to spend his time making remedies and notes, and found a folded piece of paper on his desk, just as he had the day he met Sherlock for the first time in the town's main street.

Moving slowly, his leg and shoulder both aching mournfully, he walked to the desk and picked up the paper. It was another note. There was dust on its outer folded edge, so it must have been left there a while before. He unfolded it and read.

 

_My Dearest Brother,_

_I've missed you again. It looks as though you haven't been here in a while, actually. I do hope everything is okay. I hope you aren't still angry with me for leaving._

_I wanted to let you know where I am so that you can come visit me when you get a chance. I miss you._

_I've been working with a lovely Witch named Ursula. She would love to meet you as well. She said you could stay, if you like. You could work with her as well. Perhaps we could start a new family business -- Watson spells._

_I left the address at the bottom of this letter. Do please come soon._

_Your Sister,_

_Harry Watson_

 

John stared at the paper for a long time, gripping his cane tightly. He glanced around at the clinic again, his father's legacy collecting dust. Then he pocketed the letter and left.


	20. In Which John Visits His Sister

John arrived at a lovely, large cottage surrounded by a beautifully cultivated garden out in the countryside. It looked idyllic -- like a picture in a book -- and John felt slightly guilty disturbing the picture of it by entering. Before he could hesitate long, however, his thoughts were interrupted by a boisterous and very familiar voice.

"John!" Harry shot out of the cottage's front door like she was running from something. "Oh John! You came!"

"Harry!" John's breath caught in his chest as his sister approached him. 

She had changed so much since he'd last seen her -- matured and grown. She looked radiant, her red hair cascading long down her back and a smile on her face. She embraced him in a tight hug and he embraced her back, feeling something lift from him.

"You look well," he said, a bit stiffly, uncertain how to approach the woman he had only known as a child.

She laughed. "John. Same as ever, I see. Come in."

He followed her into the cottage, which was just as idyllic on the inside as the outside -- all knitted blankets and cushy chairs and a fire blazing in the fireplace.

A squat, older woman with gray hair and a kindly smile greeted him when he entered.

"You must be John," she said, her voice reminding him of hot chocolate and bedtime stories. "I've heard so much about you. I'm so happy you've finally come."

"What took you so long?" Harry asked as she pulled up a chair to the fireside. "And what happened?" She pointed to the cane.

"Well," John said, "that's a bit of a long story, I suppose."

"We've got all the time in the world," Ursula said cheerily.

John smiled at her. "Well, I supposed it started when I met Wizard Holmes."

"Wizard Holmes?" Harry's voice matched the shock on her face.

"Yeah," John chuckled at her. "I've sort of been living with him, actually."

"John!" Harry said, still more shocked. "Couldn't you find a less dangerous boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," John said.

"Oh," Harry eyed him suspiciously. "So he's just a random wizard that you met and decided to live with for no reason."

"I..." John stammered. "Well, no. I... Er..."

"Right," Harry laughed. 

A dog ran up to them and bounced happily into Harry's lap. It was a small, fluffy white dog with perky ears and it looked absolutely enamored with his sister.

"You have a dog?" John stared at the thing as it wagged its tail in her lap. "I thought you hated dogs!"

"I do, usually," Harry said, petting the dog fondly, "but Fluff here has grown on me. She's really sweet."

John stared at her, wondering what else had changed since he'd last seen her.

"Are you seeing anyone," he asked, feeling the same protective urge to parent her that he always had as a kid.

She smiled, knowing exactly what he was feeling. 

"Not seriously," she said, a slight tilt to her mouth. "I have been talking to somebody recently though. She should be coming by today. You can meet her too!"

John smiled. Well, that hadn't changed then.

Suddenly, Fluff began barking frantically and jumped off Harry's lap to run toward the front of the house.

"Oh, that's probably her," Harry said, standing.

"Fluff doesn't seem to like her," John commented as he heard the small dog growling.

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "It's strange. She usually so sweet."

Harry moved to the door and picked up Fluff, who struggled weakly in her arms. John followed just in time to see the door open, revealing the Witch of the Wastes.

"John," Harry smiled happily, not noticing John's distress, "I'd like to introduce you to Irene."

"Hello John," Irene smiled mercilessly at him as he felt his leg begin to ache more terribly.

* * *

John nearly growled at the woman standing in the doorway, so out of place in that idyllic setting. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low and deadly.

"Oh," Harry didn't seem to notice his tone at all, "you know each other?"

"Of course," John said, still glaring at the witch, "she's the..."

Irene raised one finger and John felt his throat close as he tried to reveal her true identity. His eyes narrowed as he clearly felt the spell take hold.

"She's?" Harry asked.

"She's somebody I met at the clinic once," he finished, not taking his eyes from the woman.

"Oh," Harry looked delighted. "Small world, isn't it? Irene, dear, I'm so happy you could come by today. This is my brother!"

"I know," Irene said, shooting John an evil smile. "So nice to see you again, John."

Harry smiled and John's stomach dropped as he say the way she looked at the witch.

"Can we have a word?" John asked Irene.

"Oh John," Harry said, rolling her eyes. "I don't need you to give my dates the talk. I'm not twelve anymore."

"Oh, it's okay," Irene rubbed a hand down Harry's arm and John felt himself begin to shake with anger. "I'm sure this will only take a moment."

Harry smiled at her. "Okay then. John, please be nice."

John didn't respond, but walked back outside with Irene in tow, thinking the small, white dog might be the only one with any sense in the cottage.

As soon as he was certain they were out of earshot of the cottage, he spun on his heels to face the witch, who was still smiling devilishly at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he spat.

"Oh, didn't you hear?" she asked, her voice lilting. "I'm here for a date. You're sister really is quite sweet."

John narrowed his eyes, trying to resist the urge to swing his cane at her. 

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Nothing," she continued smiling at him. "I just want to spend time with your lovely sister. Do you have some kind of problem with that?"

"Of course I do," John growled. "Stay the fuck away from here."

"Language, language," Irene tutted. "I'm afraid that's not your choice. Harry seems quite happy to spend time with me."

"I'll make it my choice," John growled. 

"Oh, that's rather optimistic," Irene glanced down at her nails. "By the way, where is that lovely Sherlock?"

"How the fuck would I know," John growled.

"I know you two are rather cozy lately," she looked up at him, her eyes hard now. "I want to know where to find him."

"Well, want all you want," John said. "I'm not giving Sherlock to you."

The witch narrowed her eyes and stepped forward so that they were only a step away from one another.

"Why shouldn't I just kill you?" she asked softly, reaching out a hand and stroking his cheek.

"Just try," John didn't move or flinch, though his skin crawled. 

She slid her hand down to his bad shoulder and he felt pain shoot through it, but refused to cry out or even grimace. He simply stared dead in her eyes. 

"Not quite yet, I think," she said, removing her hand and turning to leave John standing in the middle of the yard, staring after her and trying to breathe.


	21. In Which John Adds to his Growing To Do List

 John was still staring after the witch, who had long left his sight, when he heard footsteps and panting behind him. He spun around and found Sherlock racing toward him.

"John," he panted as he came up to him, "are you okay? I felt the witch near you. What happened?"

"I..." John looked down at himself, trying to determine if he was, in fact, okay. "I'm fine. But the Witch of the Wastes was here. She's seducing my sister!"

Sherlock stepped closer so that they were only a hand's breath away.

"Did she touch you?" Sherlock asked, a bit frantically.

"She didn't hurt me," John lied, thinking it better than the truth given that he seemed have have sustained no lasting injury from whatever she had done.

"But did she touch you?" Sherlock insisted.

"I... Yes," John replied finally.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry John," his voice was so soft that John felt his heart clench and his stomach drop. "I should have come sooner."

"What's wrong Sherlock," John's voice was soft now too.

"What is in your pocket John?" Sherlock now looked John straight into John's eyes.

"The letter from Harry that brought me here," John said, staring back.

"Can I see it?" he asked.

Sherlock put his hand between them and John, slowly, pulled the letter out and placed it in Sherlock's hand. He had no idea why his heart had started beating so hard and fast. Sherlock opened the letter as slowly as John had pulled it out and stared at it for a long moment.

He shut his eyes again.

"I'm sorry John," he handed the paper back to John, who stared down at it.

What he saw was not the letter his sister left for him. Instead, it was what John now recognized as a curse.

Never offer your heart   
to someone who eats hearts   
who finds heartmeat   
delicious   
but not rare   
who sucks the juices   
drop by drop   
and bloody-chinned   
grins   
like a God.

Never offer your heart   
to a heart gravy lover.   
Your stewed, overseasoned   
heart consumed   
he will sop up your grief   
with bread   
and send it shuttling   
from side to side   
in his mouth   
like bubblegum.

If you find yourself   
in love   
with a person   
who eats hearts   
these things   
you must do.

Freeze your heart   
immediately.   
Let him—next time   
he examines your chest—   
find your heart cold   
flinty and unappetizing.

Refrain from kissing   
lest he in revenge   
dampen the spark   
in your soul.

Now,   
sail away to Africa   
where holy women   
await you   
on the shore—   
long having practiced the art   
of replacing hearts   
with God and Song.

 John read the words several times before he looked back up at Sherlock.

"Well," John said, trying to force a smile for Sherlock, "I guess that's one more curse to break then. At least this one's on me."

Sherlock glared behind him in the direction of the house, but John knew the witch was gone.

"Sherlock," John could feel the last of his energy physically leave his body, "let's go home."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to him and, to his shame, he could tell that Sherlock could see his exhaustion and pain. He nodded once.

"I'm going to use a spell to get us home," he said softly. "I need to hold you to do it, okay?"

John nodded. Sherlock wound his arm around his waist and held him tight. John felt his heart speed up again as he felt a tug at the place where the arm was.

* * *

They arrived back at the door to the house after only a few short minutes. Sherlock opened the door and waited for John to go through, still staring at him as though afraid he would collapse at any moment. John felt shaky, but he wasn't entirely sure it was from the Witch. He could still feel Sherlock's arm around his waist -- the pressure and the warmth and the feeling of security.

He was distracted when he entered the house, however, by Mrs. Hudson, who was flaring excitedly in the fireplace.

"Boys!" she said as soon as he had moved into the door. "Oh, I'm so glad you're home. They will not stop knocking! It is driving me up the fireplace!"

"Who won't stop knocking?" Sherlock asked, entering behind John and scowling at Mrs. Hudson.

John moved over to his chair, still feeling a bit shaky and extremely tired. Sherlock watched him carefully.

"Whoever is at the Kingsbury door," she said.

Sherlock growled. "Ignore it! It's Lestrade and I am in no mood to argue over that foolish princess again," he said, moving to his own chair.

An insistent knock sounded at the door.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson pleaded.

Sherlock ignored her, settling in his chair and folding his hands in front of his chin.

There was a knock at the door again and John sighed as Mrs. Hudson flared and whimpered. He stood to answer it and Sherlock's eyes immediately shot to him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Answering the door," John was still moving toward the door.

"Leave it," Sherlock grumbled.

"Might as well get it over with," John said, hand on the door handle. "He's not going away until you talk to him apparently. And who knows, maybe it isn't about the princess and Wizard Suliman."

"That's not his name," Sherlock grumbled as John opened the door.

He found Detective Lestrade on the other side of the door.

"John!" Lestrade pushed his way past John into the room. "Thank goodness. I've been knocking at the door for ages."

"I know," Mrs. Hudson grumbled.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson," he said, glancing at the fire. "Sherlock..."

"No," Sherlock responded before Lestrade could even properly begin his sentence. "I don't give a damn about the princess or that idiot wizard. I'm busy."

"This isn't about the princess and Suliman," Lestrade sighed.

"That isn't his name," Sherlock grumbled again.

"Well, it isn't about him anyway," Lestrade said impatiently. "I've got a case for you and its urgent."

Sherlock looked up at him for the first time since he entered. John pulled up a chair for Lestrade and settled back into his own chair, feeling the exhaustion through all his limbs. Sherlock glanced over at him, then back at Lestrade.

"I said I'm busy," Sherlock grumbled.

"This is important," Lestrade pleaded.

"Then take care of it yourself," Sherlock grumbled. "I have something more important to do right now."

Sherlock glanced over at John again.

"There's been a kidnapping," Lestrade said quickly. "It's the king's nephew, Jonathan."

"So the king has lost more of his family members," Sherlock growled. "Perhaps he needs better security."

"There was a note," Lestrade ignored Sherlock's jab. "It's for you."


End file.
